


Wholly Unspoilt

by tjmystic



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Sense & Sensibility AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-28 13:47:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 44,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tjmystic/pseuds/tjmystic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sense & Sensibility AU of Once Upon a Time</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Wholly Unspoilt (1/?)  
Rating: PG for the time being; as with all things, though, I am easily persuaded if you want the story to include smut :)

Author’s Note: Like any self-respecting Austen fan, I HAVE read Sense & Sensibility, multiple times in fact. That being said, I’ve used the Emma Thompson movie as basis for this fic because it translated better than Austen’s occasionally dense but nonetheless enjoyable language.

Also, I know that this first chapter seems to nullify Mary-Margaret as a character, which is odd considering Elinor, her basis, was the narrator. But, since this is in essence a Rumbelle story, the focus will be on Belle’s character and how she progresses. As such, apart from a few preliminary chapters that have to be narrated by Mary-Margaret, most of the story will be written from Isabelle’s or Gold’s point of view.

 

The candles flickered in the breeze, spreading honey-scented smoke all across the room. Death always came like a heavy sheet, a wild wind, covering everything with its own brand of destruction. Regina knew – Death had been her own personal friend for all the twenty-five years of her life.

“He’s in here,” the physician mumbled, opening a door on her right. “He’s fading quickly, Mrs. Glass. I just wanted you to know in case the inevitable happens whilst you’re with him.”

Regina nodded dimly, not really hearing anything the man had to say. She was here for one reason, and only one reason – to see her father-by-blood and hear his last bequest. Her breath shook when she drew it in, but she wouldn’t walk away from this mission – cowardice had never fit her, and it would be foolish to don it now. 

“Father?” she whispered into the darkness, falling to her knees beside the old man’s bed. 

He tossed in his bed, a death rattle escaping his lips when he turned to face her.

”Regina?” he coughed. “Is that really you? You’ve grown up so –” 

He interrupted himself by dissolving into a fit of shivers and shakes.

Regina nodded and took his hand. “It’s only been fifteen years since last you saw me, father, I can’t have changed too greatly.”

“There’s no time for pleasantries, my girl,” he hacked. “I have an important question to ask of you.”

“Anything, father. Only name it, and it is done.”

Leopold stared blindly at the wall behind her, almost as if she weren’t really there. Regina didn’t stop to consider how befitting that was.

“The law states,” he began, voice fading with every syllable, “that all of my possessions – my money, my land, even the estate at Snow Park – will pass to you upon my death.”

Regina’s eyes widened. “But… but I’m a woman.”

“Yes, but you are also married. I have no close male relations – no brothers, no uncles, not even a distant cousin. All of my inheritance, by law, passes on to Sidney, my only son-in-law… and therefore you, my girl.”

“You and mother –”

“Even after the annulment, dear – you are still my child by blood, even if your mother and I separated years ago. Neither Mary-Margaret nor Isabelle is yet married, and Emma is much too young. You get everything in my will.” He faced her once more, his eyes chilling in their sincerity. “That is why I must ask you to promise that you will not let them go without.”

“Father?”

“You have your step-father, Henry, to care for you now, child. But your sisters have nothing. Not even a mother, now that Eva’s gone. Do for them the best that you can.”

“I would gladly give away all of my wealth to them, father. Say it, and it shall be done.”

“If only it could, Regina,” he wheezed, petting her hand. “I wish it could be so, but the law would never allow it. So promise me, daughter… promise that you will care for them however you can. Promise.”

Regina gripped his clammy hand in her own. “I promise, father.”

His hand, his whole arm, went still. Regina lifted her face just in time to see his head press back against the pillow, dead to this world and awaiting the next. The candle flickered out. 

Regina clenched her hand until the tears flowed down her face, barely budging the deep rouge on her cheeks. “Doctor,” she called, her voice shaking.

The portly man entered the room, face grim at the vision of Mr. Blanchard’s dead body. “I’m sorry for your loss, my dear,” he muttered, so dry that Regina knew it had to be a practiced speech. 

“It is fine, sir. Thank you for allowing me to share his last moments.” She dabbed once more at her eyes, gave Leopold’s hand another squeeze, and headed for the door. “My husband and I will now take our leave.”

Regina sobbed all the way down the stairs, blotting her eyes with her handkerchief and avoiding the nurses’ sympathetic stares at every turn. But when she reached the bottom of the stairs, far away from prying eyes and glaring faces, her tears tapered off and her mouth unfroze from its grim lines. 

“Mrs. Glass,” a voice said to her left, arm already offered for her to take. She barely glanced at him as she took it.

He wasn’t a bad looking man for 40 years of age, her husband, but his skin, somewhat darker than many of their countrymen, tended to set others on edge. As such, he helpfully offered to wait outside while she visited her birth-father. 

Regina tapped her foot until he offered up his hand to help her inside the cart, ignoring his anxious stares for as long as she could. Unfortunately, he spoke up just as she thought she was succeeding.

“Well?” he asked, wide-eyed with curiosity. “What did he say?”

She shot him a sharp glare that said quite plainly to be quiet. 

Dutifully as a dog on a leash, Sidney boarded the carriage behind her and took his place by her side. The door clicked shut and the wheels began to move, sloshing through darkness and summer rain. 

Regina waited until they’d reached the main road, other people’s carts and horses surrounding them on all sides, before she turned to her husband, smiling wide and wicked.

“I’m the sole inheritor of Mr. Blanchard’s fortune.”

“Everything? But what of his other daughters?”

Regina’s smirk grew. “They get nothing.” She took his hand in hers, ignoring how it caused his whole arm to shiver. “It seems you’ve served a purpose after all, husband.”

———————————————————————————————————————-

Snow Park wasn’t an extravagant place, especially compared to the manors and castles in the nearby county. It had three stories, the norm for a middle-class Georgian family, and was made of grey stone meant to display a prosperous bearing. The lawn was Isabelle’s favorite, though – shade trees to read under, creeks perfect for drinking from, and wide open spaces for parties and picnics in the summer.

It was June, but she didn’t think they’d be having a party any time soon.

“So, when is the harpy meant to arrive?” she asked tersely, snapping the curtains closed as she finished making their morning tea. Today’s was lavender, Mary-Margaret’s favorite. Isabelle figured that her older sister would need the pick-me-up.

“That was uncalled for, Isabelle,” Mary-Margaret chastised, mostly out of habit if her uncaring tone was anything to go by. “Regina isn’t a harpy.”

Emma’s nose wrinkled. “What’s a harpy?”

Isabelle perked up, causing her to slosh some of the tea onto their counter as she poured it into cups. “The harpies were the sisters of Iris, the Greeks’ personification of the rainbow. It is said that the harpies –”

“They’re monsters with wings and shrill voices,” Mary-Margaret interrupted.

Isabelle had a harder time trying not to laugh when Emma huffed under her breath, “Sounds like Regina to me,” then she did trying not to glare at Mary-Margaret. It was a well known fact in their household that Isabelle’s head was in the clouds, and even she admitted to herself that she needed to be brought down now and again.

Mary-Margaret didn’t even touch her cup, eyes set in the most maternally stern look she could manage. “I’ve had quite enough of this conversation. Emma, go to your room – you need to finish packing.”

It was clear that that was the last thing Emma wanted to do, but she went without question, mumbling and pouting all the way up the stairs.

They were an odd family, three girls of such different personality. It seemed that they stretched from one end of the spectrum to the other from eldest to youngest. Mary-Margaret had the black silky hair of their mother, Emma the blonde curly locks of their father. Leopold’s ever-calm demeanor and regal bearing shone through in his oldest daughter, while Eva’s brittleness and independent spirit was mirrored in their youngest. Both had the green eyes of their mother, but Emma’s were bright and Mary-Margaret’s bordered on a dull grey. And, of course, Mary-Margaret, even at 19, had perfectly mastered the art of acting mother to 13-year-old Emma.

In all of those characteristics and more, Isabelle fell in the middle. Or, perhaps, she fell on a different scale entirely. Her hair was brown and wavy, her eyes bright blue and open, her demeanor shy but her will strong (especially considering she was only 17 and, by most people’s standards, shouldn’t have developed a will at all yet). She was too grown-up to be a child, but not yet grown up enough to be a mother. And, of course, she loved her sisters, the only family she had left, more than anything in the world. 

Isabelle poured a dash of milk into her sister’s tea, just the way she liked it. “Have you even gotten any word about a new place of residence?” she asked, looking her in the eye so she couldn’t lie and say everything was fine when it wasn’t. 

That look and the tea seemed to have done the trick. Mary-Margaret sighed dismally. “No. I’ve written everyone I could think of, but nothing’s turned up. I don’t know what else to do.”

Isabelle patted her on the shoulder, forcing her own fears back. “I’ll keep looking for you. I’m sure that Mr. Thatch at the bookstore knows someone in need of a tenant.”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that, Isabelle. I can handle it on my own.”

Isabelle sighed. “Mary-Margaret, you’re busy enough being a mother to Emma. After all, you’re the only one she’s known since she was six. I can spare a few moments of my entirely empty life to help you.”

Mary-Margaret, not usually one for displays of affection, turned to give her a hug. “Thank you, Isabelle.”

She finished her tea in one gulp, allowing herself to be unladylike now that Emma was gone. “Might you straighten up the drawing room? You know how picky Regina is about dust, I don’t want to give her anything to complain about.”

“And what will you be doing while I’m dusting?”

Mary-Margaret dropped her head. “I need to talk with the help.”

Isabelle put everything down and once. “I’m not letting you do that alone. I’ll come with you.”

“Really, Isabelle, you don’t have to –”

“Yes, I do.” She looked despondently at the clock. “Come along, we’d best do it now and get it over with.”

Mary-Margaret nodded, eyes suspiciously dry as she fixed her apron. Isabelle had expected for some of her cold shell to break, now that she was being forced to dismiss all of her father’s servants, but nothing gave. But then, Mary-Margaret always hid her heart in her eyes instead of wearing it on her sleeve like Isabelle. 

Their maids, cooks, and farmhands were already gathered for them at the foot of the stairs, a solemn semi-circle dreading the news that was sure to come. Isabelle knew that she’d made the right decision – no one, not even Mary-Margaret, could be expected to do this alone.

“I’m sure you know what’s coming,” Mary-Margaret started, her voice calm but tellingly quiet. “With only 500 pounds a year amongst the three of us, we can no longer afford to pay you for your help. Sometime today, Mr. and Mrs. Glass will be arriving to reclaim the house, and, since I’m not sure how many of you they’ll wish to keep on, I’ve written out a list of occupations you could fill in town.” 

The servants swarmed the job list when Mary-Margaret laid it down, muttering angrily about Regina all the while. Isabelle refrained from joining in, but she couldn’t hold back her cheeky comment,

“Thank you for your time, and for your loyalty.”

The men and women laughed, short and small and sad, and curtsied to the elder Blanchard sisters as they filed out the back door. All but one of them, anyway.

“Don’t mistake this for rudeness, Misses Blanchard, but I refuse to find other employment,” he said, his Irish accent lilting over the syllables. “I beg your pardon, but you’re three eligible young women. You need someone to take care of you.”

“Graham,” they both started, trying to head him off. Their hunter raised his hand, though, asking them to let him finish. “At the very least, I can ensure that you’ll never go hungry. I know you can’t afford to pay me anymore, but I wouldn’t accept your money even if you could. Please.”

Isabelle looked Mary-Margaret in the eye. Even if they couldn’t keep the rest of their friends and workers, Graham would more than make up for it. He was Mary-Margaret’s protector, Isabelle’s confidant, and Emma’s best friend. The idea of leaving him behind was unthinkable.

Before Mary-Margaret could tell him in more appropriate terms, Isabelle latched herself around his neck, hugging him hard until he returned. “Thank you, Graham. You don’t know how much this means to us.”

“I would do more if I could, Miss Isabelle. If I had more than a penny to my name, I’d even make an offer of marriage to save you this disgrace.”

Mary-Margaret shook her head no, placing her hand on the shoulder that Isabelle had left free. “That’s very kind of you, Graham, but neither of us would ever wish you to marry us when your love is only that of a friend and brother.”

Graham opened his mouth to retort, but froze before he could say anything. His ears perked up like his hunting dog’s when it smelt danger. “The carriage is here.”

Isabelle clapped her hands together, an entirely false look of joy on her face. “Ah! Here comes the harpy now.”


	2. Chapter 2

Wholly Unspoilt (2/?)  
Rating: PG for the time being; as with all things, though, I am easily persuaded if you want the story to include smut :)

Author’s Note: Well, the good news is that I’ve figured out when Gold finally pops up. The bad news is that you have to wait two more chapters :( But I PROMISE it will be worth it! 

 

“Emma!” Mary-Margaret shouted, even as she cuffed Isabelle on the shoulder for calling Regina a harpy again. “Mr. and Mrs. Glass are here!”

Emma raced down the stairs two at a time, not bothering to pretend she hadn’t just been lurking about the top step. Mary-Margaret glared at her, but the effect was greatly ruined by her smile. Isabelle didn’t think Mary-Margaret knew how not to be consistently happy. She’d never wish her older sister pain, but, she had to admit, seeing her upset these past days had been a relief – it made her seem more like a true human soul.

“Now, I want you to be on your best behavior. Both of you,” she said pointedly, glancing at both Emma and Isabelle.

“I promise,” they both answered sarcastically. Mary-Margaret narrowed her eyes suspiciously, but said nothing as she straightened her skirt, waiting nervously for a maid to open the door. Emma walked up behind her surrogate mother, and Isabelle had to hide her face in her sleeve to keep from laughing – her youngest sister’s fingers had been crossed behind her back the whole time.

The front door swung open, admitting their rather harried looking housekeeper. She spared the sisters a sympathetic smile before racing for the cellar, glancing nervously behind her all the while. Isabelle hardly took that as a good sign. 

“Are your servants always so skittish, Mary-Margaret?” a cold voice drawled. “Or did you train these specifically to wait on me?”

Mary-Margaret sprang to her feet, an eager smile plastered on her face. It was so easy for her to be pleasant to the source of their new misery. Isabelle, meanwhile, had to pinch her wrist as a reminder to be polite.

“I’m so sorry, Regina,” Mary-Margaret answered with a curtsy. “We’ve just let go the majority of our staff – they must be panicking about finding new occupations elsewhere.” 

Regina hummed under her breath. “Well, thank you for removing all the help, dear. Now I shall have to waste days that would be much better spend dusting this dingy little place interviewing for new help.”

Isabelle gritted her teeth; had Mary-Margaret kept them on, she had no doubt Regina would continue complaining about their incompetence. 

After a final glare at the eldest sister, Regina moved down the hall. She sneered at the classic portraits on the walls, the almost nonexistent film of dust on the mirror. As usual, she bypassed Isabelle completely to lean down toward Emma, a menacing smirk on her face.

“My, what a gorgeous little bonnet you have,” she said, patting at the straw hat. “Smart thing, hiding your hair under it – it’s rather too much like your father’s for any self-respecting girl or woman to proudly wear.”

For all that Regina was ten years her senior, Emma matched her sneer lip for lip. “Oh, it isn’t my bonnet, Mrs. Glass,” she said icily, unlacing it and stuffing it into Regina’s hands. “It’s yours.” 

She shook her curly blonde locks free, making sure to catch some of her frizz on Regina’s rings. Mary-Margaret shot her a warning glance, but Emma didn’t back down.

“The rest of the house is yours,” she said politely, giving the bemused Mrs. Glass her most ironic curtsy. “I assumed you’d want my gorgeous little bonnet, too.”

Isabelle could no more hold back her laughter than the wind could keep from blowing. Mary-Margaret’s eyes scanned anxiously between her younger sisters, wondering which would bear the brunt of Regina’s hatred today. To Isabelle, that worry was foolish – Mary-Margaret would always be the thorn in Regina’s side, for reasons no one understood, and Emma would be her constant pain since she never backed down from a challenge. Isabelle, meanwhile, would always be overlooked, even when her giggles were as loud as a braying horse.

She’d never say it – and Emma, at least, would never need it to be since she already understood – but Isabelle knew that she was the luckiest of the three for being ignored by their half-sister.

Regina eyed little Emma as if she were a bug that needed to be squashed underfoot. Her hands shook just enough that, when she replaced the bonnet on Emma’s head, it came down lopsided. “There’s no need for that, Miss Emma,” she said curtly, whipping back up to stand ramrod straight. She was positively fuming when she twisted toward the door. “Husband, why haven’t you brought in the bags?”

“I’m coming, dear!” he called back, his voice accompanied by a low oomph. Isabelle pitied him – for all that he must know about Regina’s nature, he still clung to her with blinded love and affection. It was almost enough to make her doubt her own romantic nature. 

Graham and Mr. Glass trudged in, carting their respective weights in carpet bags and leather cases. Regina stared threateningly at Mary-Margaret on her way to the door, even as she ran her long fingernails up Graham’s arm. “You can drop these in the foyer, Mr. Humbert,” she purred. “Mr. Glass can take them to the master bedroom on his own.”

To Graham’s credit, he neither retreated nor leaned in. He rather resembled a deer in the crosshairs, in fact. Sidney, meanwhile, trundled up the stairs like a wounded puppy. Regina didn’t notice, though, her eyes and smile focused predatorily on their hunter.

“I’m going to go freshen up, before supper,” she said, lowering her voice in a way that made Isabelle’s blood run cold. “The ride left me awfully tired, I’m afraid.”

He dared not look her in the eye, focusing instead on the spot of wallpaper between Isabelle’s and Mary-Margaret’s heads. “Then you’d best get some rest, Mrs. Glass. It would be a shame for you to miss your first meal here.”

The offense in Regina’s eyes was obvious, as well as the surprise that her offer hadn’t been taken up. She gave him a curt quirk of her lips in return, and walked up the stairs without a parting glance, sure to caress his shoulder on the way past.

Emma glared after her, knowing what she’d done was wrong even if she didn’t quite understand why. Though she was even more hesitant about touch than Mary-Margaret, she also hugged herself around Graham’s hip, offering him whatever comfort she could provide. He smiled grimly and fingered her hair, rubbing at the strands uncovered by her bonnet. 

But Isabelle looked at Mary-Margaret, not even bothering to conceal her anger, and gave her a knowing nod. Whether they could afford it or not, they would not be leaving Graham behind for Regina’s amusement. 

———————————————————————————————————————-

Mary-Margaret spun her spoon about in her soup, eyes flashing from face to face at the table. Regina sat smugly at the head, regally staring them down as if they’d dared to insult her place. Then again, that was the very impression Isabelle and Emma were giving off, eyes glued to their half-sister as if she were a spawn of Satan. Only Sidney’s face, tranquil and bland as always, belied the tension in the room.

She knew why her sisters hated Regina – how could she not when she’d been the one to know her the longest? She was cruel, cold, and full of hatred for the lot of them. But she had a special hatred for Mary-Margaret, one which they alone understood. Even Isabelle, wise as she was, had no idea. But then, she hadn’t been there in those early years when all Regina wanted was Leopold’s love and Leopold only cared for his new wife and daughter. More importantly, though, neither Isabelle nor Emma was there when Mary-Margaret removed Daniel from their elder sister’s life. 

“How is Lady Cora?” Mary-Margaret asked jauntily, trying to inject some good humor into the conversation. She realized her mistake as soon as Regina’s clipped smile faced her – mother and daughter hardly got along, and bringing up the former would hardly put the latter in a good mood.

“She is well,” Mrs. Glass muttered crisply, taking a long sip on her water. “She sent word just a fortnight ago, in fact. Apparently, she’s taken on some sort of seaman as a tenant.”

Heavy silence began to settle once again, but Mary-Margaret fought it off. “Speaking of new tenants, have you decided what to do with your house in London? Now that you’re moving into Snow Park, I’m sure it would make a lovely lease.”

“How preposterous! Of course I’m keeping it under my name,” she answered testily, accompanied by a derisive stare about the dining room. “This dingy little building is hardly suitable for staying in during the winter months.”

Mary-Margaret felt the waves of anger issuing from the other side of the table. She even imagined that she could hear Isabelle’s thoughts, wondering why Regina would take the house if she hated it so much. Mary-Margaret knew, though; she suspected Isabelle did, too, at that. All of this was Regina’s greatest punishment for ruining her life. 

Thankfully, Regina continued before anyone could interrupt. “Daddy – Henry, I mean, my step-father – is holding it for me at present. He does so love the city.”

Mr. Glass nodded his head in concurrence, not that Regina noticed. If it wasn’t inappropriate, Mary-Margaret might’ve gotten up to hug her brother-in-law. 

“I believe my cousin Jim is visiting with him now. He’s on leave from the marines. It’s no small comfort to me, to know that Daddy won’t be lonesome for a while longer. How could he when young ladies and their fathers come calling for Jim at all hours of the day? He’s likely the most eligible bachelor in London at the moment.”

Her last words were accompanied by a challenging grin, almost as if daring Mary-Margaret or Isabelle to say they were worthy of cousin Jim’s affections. Privately, she thought that Regina needn’t have worried – Isabelle was too in love with her books for any man to sweep her off her feet, and she herself believed that love wasn’t part of her future. Least of all with a member of Regina’s family. 

Like with most things (though not Regina’s attentions for Graham, thank the Lord), the implications of the moment didn’t pass over Emma’s head. She couldn’t decide if she was proud or put-out about the girl’s understanding.

“You have two cousins, do you not?” she barged on, not giving either of her three sisters the opportunity to turn hostile. Sidney shot an appreciative glance her way, obviously afraid of being caught in the crossfire. Mary-Margaret smiled graciously in return. 

Regina nodded as she picked at her own soup. “I suppose you’re referring to David. He’s the elder of the two, but I hardly see him now that he’s in university. Uncle Spencer rests all of the family’s hopes on him, as you can imagine.”

She coughed over the bowl, looking hatefully at it as if it was somehow insulting her. Mary-Margaret took another bit herself – she thought it tasted fine, but she’d be sure to instruct the temporary cook to use less basil next time. She knew how Regina detested the herb. 

“Which reminds me,” Regina added, hastily shoving her soup away. “He’s coming in next week, David. He’s on holiday for the season, and I told him he might stay here before he returns to his father.”

Clang!

Mary-Margaret nearly jumped from her seat, startled by the sudden noise. It was instantly apparent where it had sprung from, though. Both Isabelle and Emma had dropped their silverware at Regina’s pronouncement, and now they were looking to her to intercede. She blanched whiter than the tablecloth.

“That won’t be problematic, will it dear?” Regina asked, putting her lace gloved hand atop Mary-Margaret’s. For all the concern in her voice, there was malice in her eyes.

Mary-Margaret refused to let her smile drop. If her smile dropped, then Regina would think she’d broken her, and then they’d never reconcile. But, deep inside, it hurt that she hadn’t been given even that slight respect of being asked if a guest could visit. 

Mary-Margaret hung her head, hiding her tears behind a wide-lipped grin. “No problem at all,” she replied meekly. “It is your home now.”

———————————————————————————————————————-

Isabelle was quickly becoming hysterical, an emotion she wasn’t normally that familiar with. Papers lined all sides of her vanity table, her hands were stained with ink, and, worst of all, none of it had yet helped in finding her and her sisters new room and board. 

It might not have been so bad if it was only she was only worried about herself. A week had gone by, and Regina still treated her like peeling wallpaper, something to occasionally glare at but ignore and replace overall. She couldn’t say it was a pleasant situation, but at least she was left alone. 

The same couldn’t be said of Mary-Margaret and Emma, however. The former was berated by Regina at every turn from having her hairstyle insulted to insinuations that she was sleeping herself about in town. Isabelle was almost as angry at her older sister for putting up with it as she was at Regina for being the instigator, but she reminded herself that it was merely Mary-Margaret’s way. Besides, it was almost worth it to see Regina’s frustration when she couldn’t break her rival. 

Emma, meanwhile, had taken to hiding in odd places to stay away from the wretched woman. This, too, wouldn’t have been so bad if it weren’t for the additional stress it caused Mary-Margaret. If Isabelle hadn’t already promised to deal with the more pressing occupation of applying for housing, she’d volunteer to look for Emma, too. She wasn’t overtly worried about her baby sister, though – if there was one thing the girl was good at, it was in keeping herself from getting lost. She only wished that Mary-Margaret would relax enough to realize the same. 

But the worst thing by far was “cousin David’s” upcoming arrival. Unfair as it was, Isabelle couldn’t help but by afraid that the man would be just as cold and crass as Regina. Perhaps even worse, considering that he was a man. And though Mary-Margaret was polite and happy as could be, Isabelle knew that she feared the same. 

“Please, Emma, we’ll be leaving soon as it is,” her elder sister’s voice interrupted, increasing and decreasing in pitch as she paced around the room. 

“I’m not giving up my bedroom for Regina’s stupid cousin!” Emma argued back, angrily stamping her feet. Isabelle shook her head – on any other thirteen-year-old, that action would’ve looked childish, but Emma somehow came out looking like a raging bull. 

“It’ll only be a few nights, dear. You’ll be staying with me and Isabelle – it will be just like a sleepover.”

Emma’s determination to keep from smiling was audible, as was Mary-Margaret’s own ever-present grin.

Emma flumped on the floor at Isabelle’s feet, folding the spare sheets of paper into intricate designs. “I still don’t see why he has to take my room. There are plenty of spare ones in the guest quarters.”

“Regina says yours has the best views,” Mary-Margaret muttered.

Isabelle and Emma shared a look – of course it was Regina’s doing. Isabelle took Emma’s hand and squeezed, subtly suggesting that she give in to Mary-Margaret’s demands. Emma groaned, but she finally agreed.

“Fine. I’ll come room with you for his visit,” she grumbled.

Isabelle chuckled and returned to the task at hand, drafting another letter about apartment holdings in Devonshire. It wasn’t as close as she’d like, but at least the rent for that county was cheaper. In the split second it took for her to look up and refill her quill with ink, though, a trace of movement caught her eye. She leaned in closer, looking past her windowpane, and finally located the new addition – a white horse, complete with leather reins and a rider in a brown coat, was galloping onto the lawn.

Dread fell heavily into the pit of her stomach. In her stories, Prince Charming was the only person to arrive on a brilliant white steed. Here, though, it was just David Nolan. And, white steed or not, Isabelle was smart enough not to hang any romantic notions or hopes upon a man Regina spoke highly of.


	3. Chapter 3

Wholly Unspoilt (3/?)  
Rating: PG… for the moment; keep your eyes open after Chapter 12 ;)

Although on that note, what is it with me putting smut into the twelfth chapters of things? 

Author’s Note: Well, this is my first installment of the post-2x12 fluff-therapy. Sense and Sensibility isn’t a particularly happy story, but, at this point in the writing, it’s rather pleasantly uplifting. And, you know, it does have a happy ending. However, I must break all of your hearts a little by saying that Rumple won’t be showing up for two more chapters - stupid David decided to overstay his welcome -_- 

As always, I encourage you to thank anonymousnerdgirl for getting me to work on this – Lord knows this fic wouldn’t even exist without her.

Oh, and this is a little random, but there’s a reference later on in the chapter to a game called “sardines”. From what I understand, it’s basically backwards hide-and-seek: instead of one person looking for a lot of people, everyone playing goes to look for one person. 

 

Mary-Margaret pinched her cheeks until they blushed, hoping it would make her smile seem more genuine. However nasty Regina’s cousin might turn out to be, there was no need to be rude to their guest. 

The Glasses’ guest, she reminded herself. It wasn’t her home any longer. 

Isabelle nudged her on the elbow to make her stop, grinning in the most encouraging way she could manage. As it was, that grin looked more a grimace. For the thousandth time this week, Mary-Margaret found herself wishing that her younger sisters could learn to better hide their more volatile emotions. She would’ve been thankful that Isabelle was the only one of the two she had to deal with – Emma had run off as soon as Isabelle called that cousin David had arrived – but her worry overrode everything else. The last time Emma had been upset enough to bolt was when their mother died, and then she didn’t just ran, she ran away. It took Graham the better part of an evening to find her. 

“Mr. David Nolan,” Regina’s butler announced, loud enough as he opened the door to interrupt Mary-Margaret’s thoughts.

She and Isabelle, as well as Sidney and Regina, stood to their feet as David was admitted to the drawing room. Mary-Margaret stared at the rug to keep from looking at him, trying not to draw attention to herself as she looked for some trace of her baby sister’s presence.

“Dear Regina,” David greeted, audibly kissing his cousin’s hand. “And Sidney. How are you both?”

“Fine, thank you,” Regina simpered. “Let me introduce our other guests.”

Mary-Margaret couldn’t even bring herself to be hurt by that description. Instead, she focused on the overturned corner of a table runner, hoping that Emma was spying underneath. 

“David, these are Miss Blanchard and Miss Isabelle.” She felt her sister dip to the ground in a curtsy. “There’s a third, Miss Emma, but she has disappeared again, I’m afraid.”

“I’m quite sorry,” he mumbled. Frantic as she was, Mary-Margaret couldn’t help but notice that he sounded sincere. “I do hope she’s not upset about my arrival.” 

She knew what Isabelle was about to say as soon as the words were out of David’s mouth. She spun around to stop her, giving up for the moment on finding Emma under the tablecloth, but she was too late.

“How did you find your room, Mr. Nolan?” Isabelle asked shrewdly. “Everything to your liking?”

“Yes, thank you. It’s splendid.” He laughed, an unnaturally genuine noise since she herself was so used to laughing for propriety. “I enjoy seeing the sheep outside the window. It makes me feel like an honest farmhand.”

Mary-Margaret imagined that she could feel the temperature drop. “But your room ought to overlook the lake,” Regina said curtly. 

“Yes, about that,” he muttered. “Someone must’ve misunderstood your orders, cousin. I was directed to one of the family rooms by mistake, but I took care of it at once. I’m staying in the guests’ quarters.”

She snapped her head up in surprise. Did he really just grant Emma her room back? She wanted to thank him, she really did… but the moment he turned his face to hers, all coherent thought left her mind.

The first thing she noticed was his eyes. They were pale blue, almost icy if not for the warmth resting on their surface. They reflected his smile, an almost gentle thing that spoke of untainted honesty. She forgot, for a moment, that he was Regina’s first cousin. 

“I hope you don’t mind, Miss Blanchard,” he said quietly, inclining his head regally in her direction. “I can just as easily lodge with the servants.”

Mary-Margaret could feel Isabelle’s eyes burning into the side of her head, but she refused to turn around – it would be terribly impolite if they showed their surprise at how kind the man was.

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Nolan,” she replied.

David held her gaze steadily, an odd action indeed as shy as he seemed. He only blinked away when Regina coughed in the background.

“Tea!” she snapped. The maid in the corner sprang to attention and frantically jogged out the door, clutching a silver tray tight to her chest. 

As soon as the woman left, Regina turned her eyes back on Mr. Nolan. Mary-Margaret didn’t miss the piercing glare she shot her on the way, though. “You must’ve had a very arduous trip, David. Peppermint and scones ought to perk you up.”

David smiled genteelly at her. “That would be much appreciated, Regina.”

Mary-Margaret took her chance to check under the table when Regina turned her back. Her smile faltered when she saw that it was empty with no trace of Emma to be seen.

“I must apologize, Regina,” she stated quickly, trying not to incite Regina’s rage, “but Isabelle and I will have to decline. As you said, Emma’s still missing, and we really do need to look for her.”

Regina whipped around, eyes narrowed in hatred. Mary-Margaret held her breath to keep from frowning – she couldn’t let her elder sister know how much her disapproval hurt.

“Fine, dear,” she answered, her voice sickly sweet. “I suppose I can show David around my home in the meantime.”

Mary-Margaret took Isabelle by the elbow before she could retort, and dropped into a quick curtsy before dragging them to the door. “Thank you, ma’am. Lovely to meet you, Mr. Nolan.”

“Likewise,” he called. Isabelle turned around, but Mary-Margaret refused – a pair of pretty blue eyes wouldn’t distract her from finding Emma. 

“You should check the gardens,” she told Isabelle, heading toward the servants’ quarters herself. “If I let you search the library, you’ll likely distract yourself with reading.”

Isabelle halted and jerked her arm from her sister’s grip. “You think I would rather read than look for Emma? I do remember that she ran away when mama died, Mary-Margaret, I’m just as worried as you.”

She massaged her fingers against her temples – she’d never wished so ardently for a day to be done with. “Isabelle, that is not what I –”

It was too late – her little sister was already out the door, calling out for Emma as she raced down the garden path. Mary-Margaret sighed; she hadn’t meant to offend her, she’d only been stating the obvious.

“Graham!” she called, turning away from Isabelle with an errant nod. 

The man was upstairs in an instant. “Yes, Miss Mary-Margaret?”

“Graham, Emma’s gone missing again. Could you go to the forest and make sure she hasn’t… well, make sure she isn’t there?”

The hunter’s eyes flashed just as bleak as she felt. It was almost a relief – besides herself, she thought Graham might be the one person who loved little Emma most. 

“I’ll be off at once, Miss,” he agreed, shedding his satchel and donning a jacket in its place. “Don’t worry – I’ll find her.”

“Thank you,” she whispered fervently.

Graham spared a comforting hand for her shoulder, and was off in the direction of the woods. Mary-Margaret felt a real smile split her face – Emma couldn’t get far with all three of them looking. 

Head held high, she marched off to her father’s library. Isabelle was the one who’d inherited their father’s love of books, but Emma often retreated there with her to draw up maps of all the places she’d seen (specifically, the far-from-vast grounds of Snow Park).

The only bad thing about that, of course, was that their library was the largest and most cluttered room in the house, a fact she was reminded about as soon as she opened the door.

“Emma?” she called, picking up stacks of books by the door on the off-chance that Emma had made a fort of them. “Emma?”

A faint tapping answered her call. Mary-Margaret smiled in relief, waiting for her little sister to reappear. But she never did, though the tapping got ever louder. 

“… and it’s been absolutely the most dreadful time,” someone sneered. 

Mary-Margaret would’ve recognized her elder sister’s voice anywhere. Without a second thought, she buried herself behind the books, brushing off her guilt at eavesdropping. Despite not having heard the first part of the conversation, she had a sneaking suspicion that she knew exactly what her half-sister was talking about. 

“But anyway, here’s the library,” Regina continued, voice growing louder as she opened the door. A second, heavier set of footsteps reminded her that David must’ve followed. He seemed rather more interested in her complaints than the layout of the house. 

“I don’t see why you shouldn’t get along with them, Regina,” David argued politely, confirming her fears. “They are your sisters, after all.”

“Half-sisters. And they’re all dreadfully spoiled,” Regina drawled. “Miss Emma’s been hiding all week instead of greeting me like a proper guest ought. And Miss Blanchard is nothing but cruelty and backhanded comments.” 

Mary-Margaret hung her head in shame. She thought she’d been nothing but kind to her half-sister, but, apparently, she’d dismally failed. 

David stopped Regina with a hand on her wrist. “Cousin, their father has just died. You cannot judge them so harshly in the face of such torment.” 

Through the space between the stacks, Mary-Margaret saw Regina shake her cousin off. “I won’t hear such excuses, David. You’re much too forgiving. It makes you an easy target for undeserving souls.”

He ignored her comment completely. “I noticed, by the by, that you mentioned nothing about the middle girl.”

Mary-Margaret’s heart warmed – she knew, in spite of Isabelle’s pretending, that it hurt her to be forever left out and forgotten. 

Regina shrugged. “I barely notice the girl,” she muttered, proving Mary-Margaret’s point all the more. 

Her nose wrinkled as she skimmed her fingers across the books. “I’ve never liked the smell of books.”

She was almost offended on Isabelle’s behalf for that remark. Only almost, though, for just at that second, a wisp of blonde curls darted across the room and dove under a table in the far corner. The map she’d been drawing was left in plain view, not quite making it under the cloth with its owner. And David, whose attention had veered from his cousin, was staring right at it. Mary-Margaret stifled her gasp.

Regina made a sharp turn, obviously having heard the slide of Emma’s skirt across the floor, but David was fast on his feet. Mary-Margaret could almost see the gears turning in his head as he backed into the table, nudging Emma’s map under the cloth there with his boot. “Musty smelling or not,” he said, unnaturally loud to cover her little sister’s squeak of surprise, “I’d actually be quite interested in reading a few of these. You’d be surprised at how unforgivably mis-stocked the university is.”

Mrs. Glass nodded vaguely, obviously not paying him a stitch of attention. “I’ll leave you to it, then. The maid will be up when tea’s ready.”

“Oh, that’s quite unnecessary,” he said, voice rising anxiously. “It would disturb my reading, you know.”

Regina was too smart to not be suspicious of that, but, thankfully, her boredom overrode it. “Well, if you need anything, I’ll still be in the kitchen.” Her eyes rolled as she scoffed, “The cook needs some disciplining if tonight’s supper is to be better than yesterday’s.”

David stood still as a statue as Regina marched from the room. Only when the door snapped shut behind her and the sound of her heels on the steps died away did he let out the breath he’d been holding and kneel to the ground before the table. 

“What are you doing?” he asked courteously, drawing the cloth up so that Emma could be seen. 

Much to Mary-Margaret’s surprise, Emma actually answered him. “I don’t like Regina,” she mumbled, little hands clenched in her lap. 

“Oh, that’s not fair,” David said, though his smile suggested that he privately agreed. “She really is a lovely person.”

Emma said nothing, but at least she crawled out from under the table. Mr. Nolan didn’t seem to be deterred by her silence.   
“You know, your sisters are worried sick about you. I think they even sent your hunter friend to look.”

She swept back her hair and shrugged, an action Mary-Margaret recognized all too well as way of brushing off her sadness. 

“I’m good at finding people,” she said simply, “so I’m really good at losing them, too.”

She couldn’t take it anymore. “She’s right, you know,” Mary-Margaret agreed. David jumped, but made it seem like he was merely rocking on his heels instead. “She wins every time when we play sardines.”

Emma raced into her arms, hugging her tight about the knees. She accepted it for the apology it was and smoothed back the young girl’s hair. 

David stepped up to their side, nodding stoically all the while. He bent down to Emma’s ear to speak in a loud whisper, “I was never good at sardines myself – I made the mistake of always hiding in the laundry. Even if I hadn’t been thoroughly predictable, they could smell me all the way to the street.”

Both sisters laughed, a shocking thing on its own – it felt like it had been years since they’d laughed together. Mary-Margaret nudged her sister in the foot, nodding to her and back to David. As always, she immediately understood.

“Emma Blanchard,” she said, bowing to him instead of curtsying. Mary-Margaret bit her tongue to keep from correcting her. 

“David Nolan, at your service.”

Emma shook his hand, then gave him a scrutinizing glare. “You can’t play sardines with us, obviously,” Emma said superiorly, “but you must be good at something.”

David rolled his eyes to the ceiling, hands bouncing behind his back as he thought. A sheepish grin began to rise on his cheeks.

“Well, I am a rather good knight…”

—————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Isabelle held her bottom lip between her teeth, trying not to swallow any dirt as she dug through the shrubbery. She’d long since grown out of hiding in them herself – leastwise because she could no longer fit – but she knew it was a favorite haunt of Emma’s. If only the girl could learn to like places larger than the size of a rabbit hole.

“En garde!”

She jerked so violently that she almost poked her eye on twig. “What on Earth…?”

Isabelle scurried backwards out of the leaves, half-worried that a brigade of knights had invaded Snow Park. It was a ridiculous fear, of course, but one had to be prepared for everything.

‘Everything’ apparently included the notion that Emma had already been found, and was facing David with a broomstick in each of their hands. That in and of itself would’ve been strange, but it was made all the more unbelievable by Mary-Margaret’s presence. Especially considering that she was actually smiling – not her fake grin for decorum, but a truly honest smile.

“First, bow,” David explained, bending at the waist and showing Emma to do the same. “And hold out your sword – you are a might warrior, after all. Strike fear into my soul!”

Isabelle and Mary-Margaret laughed as one, though the latter hadn’t yet seen the former. David winked at the eldest over Emma’s head, pausing to give her a timid wave. Unfortunately for him, Emma took his lesson to heart, and jabbed him between the thighs. Isabelle worried that Emma might have missed a few details about human anatomy if that’s where she thought Mr. Nolan kept his soul.

“Ah hah!” Emma shouted victoriously. Isabelle covered her wide grin when Mary-Margaret raced to his side, asking repeatedly if he was alright. He assured them both that he was fine, but she couldn’t but notice that he held her elder sister’s hand a few moments too long. 

Isabelle shook her head, a happy blush riding up her cheeks. She’d always assumed it would be herself to find love so quickly – she was the romantic in the family, after all, and Mary-Margaret constantly claimed that she couldn’t see love in her future. She smiled to herself and brushed off her skirts, heading for the drawing room so she could draft more letters. She’d have to endeavor to keep an eye on the two of them…


	4. Chapter 4

Wholly Unspoilt (4/?)  
Rating: PG… for the moment; remember to keep your eyes open after Chapter 12, though ;)

Author’s Note: Soooooooooo sorry for taking so long to update this one, guys! I got sidetracked by my birthday fics and new episodes and family stuff and *meep*! Shan’t happen again though, I assure you. The longest you’ll have to wait for a new chapter is a few weeks, NOT a few months. Also, sorry this is so short - at this point, I think I was just rushing to get to Colonel Gold (who shows up in the next chapter, not this one).

Anyway, enough of my ramblings - you came here for the fic, did you not? Best let you get to it, then:

 

Isabelle would’ve considered herself very blind indeed if she’d let Mr. Nolan’s feelings for her sister go unnoticed. 

Indeed, he spent every waking moment trailing Mary-Margaret like a flower stretching towards her sunlight. Every morning he could be found waiting for her at the foot of the stairs, ready to pounce with a suggestion that they go for a walk or a horseback ride in the country, and every night he’d escort her back to the main hall with a wistful promise to see more of Snow Park the next morning. It was almost sickeningly sweet, enough to have Isabelle laughing herself to sleep every night. Not out of cruelty, though – far from it. She was overjoyed that Mary-Margaret, the stalwart head of the Blanchard family, finally had a suitor who seemed worthy of her.

Much as it amused her, though, she couldn’t say David’s attraction surprised her. Mary-Margaret was a delicate beauty, the fairest woman in their county, and, despite her fake pleasantries, a genuinely kind person. David would’ve been a fool to let her slip through his fingers. And he might still be a fool, but not for this, at least. The only real surprise in regards to their courtship was that Mary-Margaret thought she could hide her own attraction. Least of all from Isabelle.

“Humor me, sister,” she goaded for what felt like the hundredth time that morning. “You find him to be handsome, wondrous, and above all, charming.”

Mary-Margaret refused to meet her eyes, choosing instead to continue scrubbing at the teacups. Still, it would’ve been impossible to miss the little smirk that lifted the corner of her mouth. “I… I must admit that I do… greatly esteem him,” she muttered slowly, as if measuring each word on her tongue before saying it. “I like him.” 

Isabelle snorted. “Esteem him? Like him? Oh, you do so exaggerate, Mary-Margaret. Tell us your true feelings.”

Mary-Margaret handed her the now soapy cup to dry off, apparently ignoring her teasing. She was about to give up her line of questioning and call it a day, when the man in question walked by the kitchen window, Emma riding on his shoulders. Both young women smiled at the sound of their youngest sister’s laughter, a feature that had been sadly absent from their lives since their father died. It was nice to have it back. 

Mary-Margaret coughed and spoke up once again, voice soft with shyness.

“Did I tell you about the conversation he and I had yesterday morning?” 

“No, you did not,” Isabelle smiled. “Did he finally confess his undying love for you?” 

Isabelle was certain that the look Mary-Margaret shot her was intended to be a glare, but it was much too radiant to fit that label. “Hardly. He was divulging the career plans he hopes to undertake.” 

“Well, I hope he’s not intending to be a soldier,” Isabelle smirked. “I’ve seen his onerous attempts at fencing.”

Mary-Margaret whacked her with the dishtowel, both of them laughing as she did so. “Oh hush, mine awful sister of discourteousness!”

“Lord, he’s got you speaking in Shakespearean tongues,” Isabelle murmured drily. “This is serious.” 

Mary-Margaret flicked her again, albeit more lightly this time. “Actually, David doesn’t want to be an officer at all. His father does, but…”

Isabelle paused to look directly at her elder sister, attempting as best she could to hide the surprise in her expression. Mary-Margaret sounded absolutely disgusted with the senior Mr. Nolan. Well, disgusted by Mary-Margaret’s standards, at any rate. The most Isabelle had ever seen from her in terms of dislike was mere annoyance – this was a tremendous breakthrough. 

Thankfully, Mary-Margaret was too wrapped up in thoughts of her suitor to notice her little sister’s incredulity. “Well, anyway, his younger brother, Jim, has already undertaken a military career, so I don’t see why his father should continue to press the issue.” 

“And what of our dearest David, then?”

Mary-Margaret didn’t even notice the teasing quality of Isabelle’s tone. “He said he wants to be a reverend, ideally. Or perhaps obtain himself a small farm.” She giggled, not one of her fake ones but one of genuine happiness. “‘Pastor or pasture,’ he said. ‘A simple life with a flock to lead.’”

“Very practical of him,” Isabelle managed, though her eyes remained wondrously fixed on Mary-Margaret. She opened her mouth – to say more about her dear prince, no doubt – but they were rudely interrupted by a shrill voice.

“Mary-Margaret!” Regina called, clopping into the kitchen on her loud heels. “Oh dear, am I interrupting your chores?” 

Isabelle was tempted to fling her wet rag at the old shrew, but her sister stayed her hand in the soapy water. 

“Of course not, Regina,” Mary-Margaret answered calmly. “What do you need?”

“Oh, nothing much, dear. I just wanted to inquire about your father’s spruce trees in the back garden.”

Her eldest sister stiffened. “What of them?”

“Well, I’ve begun the process of having your dear huntsman chop them down for me, and I wanted to know if the soil would be rich enough for my apple trees. Apples are, after all, a much more rewarding harvest than pine sap, don’t you agree?”

Isabelle felt Mary-Margaret stiffen, but she looked just as calm as ever. “I’m sure it will be, Regina,” she answered, voice only slightly wavering. “Might I accompany you to the garden, though? See how much Graham has accomplished?”

Regina smiled toothily, and something about the gesture made Isabelle envision a fox watching a hare. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Regina marched regally from the room, no doubt wanting Mary-Margaret to follow her at an “appropriate” distance. The thought made Isabelle’s stomach churn. But her sister, as always, handled it with a much more graceful air. 

“I’ll be back soon,” she whispered, even though Regina was no longer in earshot. “Don’t let Emma see. Please.”

Isabelle nodded, which seemed to be enough. Still, her elder sister almost ran into the doorframe looking over her shoulder. She assumed that Mary-Margaret was looking at her, but, after noting the oddly serene expression in her eyes – and looking over her own shoulder to confirm her suspicions – she realized that her sister’s eyes were for David and David alone. 

Isabelle leant dumbstruck over the washbasin – whether Mary-Margaret realized it or not, she’d fallen in love with Regina’s first cousin. Only the good Lord knew how Regina would react when she found out, but Isabelle had higher concerns than their evil half-sister. Namely, who was going to discern whether or not David was a suitable catch? Mere months ago, the job would’ve fallen naturally to their father. Obviously, though, that was no longer an option. 

Isabelle glanced out the window, directly into David’s face as he ran about the garden with Emma on his heels. She sighed – with no acting male relation, then, she’d have to take it upon herself to make an inquiry of David’s intentions. 

-

The perfect moment came up one night whilst she was reading Emma to bed. Her younger sister was too proud to ever admit it, but it was the only way she could get a good night’s sleep. Of course, what with their father’s passing and Regina’s encroaching presence, it had only gotten worse as of late.

“Which one tonight, dearest?” Isabelle asked, trying not to fidget as she stroked Emma’s hair. Mary-Margaret was the comforter, not her, but she’d been playing the doting houseguest to Regina all evening and Isabelle felt she deserved a break. She’d attempted to banish her sister to the drawing room for some tea, but Mary-Margaret had insisted on lurking by the door instead.

Emma hopped towards the bookshelf, trying to be subtle in her attempts to check the corners for monsters. Isabelle didn’t miss it, though, nor, she thought, did Mary-Margaret.

“I’d like this one,” her little sister proclaimed, her bold voice doing nothing to conceal her disquiet.

Isabelle looked curiously at the title and cringed. It was Wordsworth – their father’s favorite.

“Are you sure you want this one, Emma?”

Emma looked nervously at the moth-eaten pages, but her nod was firm. Isabelle apologized to Mary-Margaret with her eyes, and turned solemnly to the right page. 

“‘Strange fits of passion have I known, and I will dare to tell…’”

The sound of footsteps on the stairwell almost made her stop, but they were clearly much too heavy to belong to Regina. A quick peek in the direction of the hallway confirmed her suspicions – it was David. 

If she hadn’t been paying such close attention to him, she might’ve missed how he whispered, “Why are you crying?” into Mary-Margaret’s ear. As it was, she’d read this poem so many times that she could recite it without looking at the page, meaning she could devote her full attention to the couple in the door. 

“I’m sorry,” Mary-Margaret whispered back. “It’s just… this was my father’s favorite.”

Isabelle shifted Emma to the side so that she could better hear, all the while curling her little sister’s hair around her fingers. Just because she was curious didn’t mean that the girl didn’t deserve comfort.

“You miss him, don’t you?”

Mary-Margaret didn’t answer that question, but, then, she didn’t really have to.

Isabelle read on in silence, pausing only when she saw David reach for Mary-Margaret’s hand out of the corner of her eye, and stopping only when Emma fell asleep. She smiled and kissed her on the head before sliding from the bed and handing the book to Mary-Margaret. 

“You should lie down with her, sister,” she said softly, nonchalantly edging her way between the two. She could almost see David frowning behind her. “You haven’t slept well all week. I’ll go get us some tea.”

Mary-Margaret grinned at her gratefully and stepped inside. David obviously expected Isabelle to leave, but she surprised him by taking him by the elbow instead.

“David, might I speak with you before we retire?”

He gulped when she shut the bedroom door behind her. Isabelle smirked - she may not be a man, but she was performing the job of chaperone well enough if she could make him so nervous.

“What do you need to speak to me about?”

Isabelle was tempted to prolong this. Not because he’d done anything wrong, or that she disliked him, but just to ensure that he got the point. That, and it would be good fun to watch him squirm. But, after looking at his worried brow, she decided to take pity on him and shorten it to just a few sentences.

“My sister is a restrained person,” Isabelle began, softly so as not to alert either of her sisters. “She drops her smile for few, and cries for even fewer. You have seen both. Don’t waste that generosity of her spirit.”

David’s face stretched in confusion after she fell silent, and Isabelle bit back the urge to chuckle. She could see why Mary-Margaret adored him, of course, but he wasn’t incredibly ingenious.

“You… pardon me, I don’t think I quite understood?” he murmured.

At that, Isabelle did laugh. ”Good night, David. Think it over whilst you sleep.”

Isabelle made it down a whole flight before she heard David take off in the opposite direction. She smiled - think it over while he slept indeed.

“Dear David has a vast inheritance, you know.”

Isabelle whipped around, the blood chilling in her veins. Regina stood perched against the banister, a sly, evil smile dotting her lips. She’d seen. Worse, she’d heard. “Pardon?”

Regina smirked and stepped a bit closer. “Oh, I was just talking about David’s fortune. You see, his father has such great aspirations for him.”

Isabelle set her feet, refusing to give Regina even an inch. “So I’ve heard. But, pray tell, what does that have to with anything at present?”

“To the point, aren’t you?” she simpered. “I just wanted you to know that my Uncle Spencer would disinherit him in an instant if he so much as thought about running off with a penniless, homely girl. So, you see, it would quite ruin his future to even entertain such thoughts. Am I clear, Miss Isabelle?”

Isabelle gritted her teeth, both fists clenched at her sides. “Clear as glass, Regina.” She only hoped the woman would be as breakable as glass, too. Her hatred for Mary-Margaret was no secret, but to ruin her sister’s happiness like this? That couldn’t stand. But as long as they stayed under this roof – Regina’s roof – what else could she do?

“Miss Isabelle,” Graham’s voice interrupted. Regina’s eyes flitted wantonly down the stairs, and it took every inch of Isabelle’s -restraint not to slap her and be done with it. 

“Yes, Graham?” she growled, hoping he would understand that it wasn’t him who’d upset her. 

He came far enough up the steps to slip a piece of paper in her hand before retreating. Isabelle couldn't say she blamed him.

“A message just came for you.”

She and Regina both started. It was still daylight outside, but it was still an unusually late hour. 

“Thank you, Graham,” she said kindly, letting him know he was dismissed. He didn’t hesitate to leap down the stairs and away from Regina’s wondering eye.

The harpy in question turned a sharpened talon in Isabelle’s direction. “Well?” she snapped.

Isabelle glared and split open the letter’s wax seal. It was heavy parchment, the kind used by officiates and other important people. The fear that her and her sisters’ funds had been cut short rose up her spine. But then she started reading, started paying attention to the words before her face, and all her worries slipped away.

“Well, what is it?” Regina growled again.

She smirked, still enraged but ultimately victorious, and shoved the letter in Regina’s face. 

“Your wish has been granted, dear sister,” she hissed defiantly. “It seems we’ve garnered housing with our cousin Victor Whale. We’ll be gone tomorrow morning.”

—————————————————————————————————————————————-

“Have you your shawl?”

“Yes.”

“Your dresses?”

“Yes.”

“Your shoes?

“Mary-Margaret, I am wearing them!”

Emma kicked her slipper-clad feet into her eldest sister’s lap, causing Isabelle to chuckle rather loudly. Mary-Margaret couldn’t find it in her to chastise, much as she thought Emma was being rude. The week she’d spent in absolute happiness had finally come to a close. 

She shook out her hair, subtly trying to clear the gloomy thought from her head. It was good for them to be moving – no longer would they be a strain on Regina’s patience, nor rely on an income which they didn’t possess. After all, that was the entire purpose in them leaving at seven in the morning even though Storybrooke Cottage – their new lodgings – was only a five-hour carriage ride away. 

Why, then, did she feel so bereft?

“Aha!” a voice called on the horizon. Mary-Margaret whipped her head around in alarm, but her features softened when she realized it was only David. “I caught you!”

Mary-Margaret laughed. “I didn’t realize we were still playing hide-and-seek, David.”

He smiled at her, but there was something strained about it. 

“Not quite,” he said smiling. There was something strained in it, something that set her on edge. “I meant that I caught you before you left. I feared I wouldn’t.”

“Come visit us and you can catch us all you like,” Isabelle interrupted, hands cupped around her mouth as if David might not hear her. Mary-Margaret cringed, but she couldn’t deny the sentiment.

“It would be nice if you could visit us,” she agreed. “After we’re settled on Sir Victor’s estate, of course.”

David beamed this time, but there was still something lurking in his eyes. “I would be honored, Miss Mary-Margaret. Truly I would.”

As always, Isabelle stepped in again to ask the awkward question. “But? Come now, David, what is it?”

He shuffled nervously on his feet, hat clutched between his wringing fingers. “I would be deeply honored, but… I’m afraid I must decline.”

Mary-Margaret’s heart hammered in her chest. “But why Is it your father? Regina?”

David wiped his brow, even though it was clear of sweat. His mouth alternated between clamping shut and gaping open like a fish’s. Whatever had happened wasn’t good.

“It’s… it’s my –”

“Would you look at the time?” Regina interrupted, gesturing grandly to the clock in the window. “Didn’t you say that Sir Victor is expecting you at noon, Mary-Margaret?”

“I… yes, he did,” she answered glumly. It would do her no good to argue, nor to ask for more time with David. If he needed to tell her desperately enough, he could always write her a letter, after all. 

And yet, her heart still felt constricted.

“Well, you’d best be on your way then, hadn’t you?”

Before either of the sisters could argue, Regina slapped the cart horse on its flank and sent them rolling down the hill. The words died on Mary-Margaret’s lips – her chance was done. 

Emma stared at her awkwardly the whole way down the road, as did Isabelle, but at least the latter made an attempt to console her. Not that she needed consoling, of course. She was only upset that David, a good friend and nothing more, would not be able to see them again soon. That was it. That was all.

“He’s a man of his word, sister.”

Mary-Margaret nodded, her faux smile pinned perfectly into place. “I know. I do not worry, Isabelle.”

Both of her younger sisters stared at her suspiciously. Mary-Margaret turned away from the window in favor of her lap, unwilling to face the guilt within her eyes. She’d never lied to her sisters before. Omitted the truth occasionally, perhaps reworded things or beat around the bush, but never outright lied. 

And this was most certainly a lie. For all that she trusted David, believed the absolute best of him and his actions, she knew that he hadn’t been quite truthful, either. 

She only wished she knew what he was hiding from her.


	5. Chapter 5

Wholly Unspoilt (5/?)  
Rating: PG-13 

Author’s Note: He’s finally here, guys! You finally get to read my take on Colonel Gold :D His introduction should explain the upped rating I think, lol. Oh, and I decided to keep Brandon’s first name (Christopher) for the colonel’s character, but I have nicknamed him “Rum” to avoid confusion.

Alright, I’ll let you carry on, my lovelies. Consider this my Easter present to all of you - I can’t resurrect myself to save all your souls, but I hope this will do:

 

If there had ever been a more awkward carriage ride, Isabelle didn’t know about it. 

For one, the weather turned uncommonly balmy halfway into the forest, meaning that the half-dozen sweaters each of the girls wore became stifling beyond belief. The smallness of the cart only made it worse, of course, especially when they started to remove their shawls only for the cloth to take up a whole corner of their space. Even worse, it began to rain shortly thereafter, and, though the chill was welcome, the mugginess most certainly was not. 

Dull of a topic as the weather was, Isabelle still tried to converse with her elder sister about it. “Tried” being the operative word there – Mary-Margaret’s gaze never once wavered from the window, even when Isabelle kicked her in the ankle. She understood why, would have to be an utter dolt not to – Mary-Margaret had left her heart back at Snow Park, in more ways than one. Understanding the problem wasn’t enough to calm her nerves, though, so she continued to nudge her sister for the whole five hours, anxiously hoping that her sister wasn’t completely broken.

Emma, much to the contrary, couldn’t keep quiet. The road was too bumpy, she said, or the carriage too stuffy. It rather sounded like a rendition of “Goldilocks and the Three Bears”. Neither of her elder sisters reproached her for it, though – they both knew how she hated to travel. Not to say that that made Emma’s complaints any easier to bear. It might’ve been better if Graham was sat with them so he could take the brunt of her sarcasm, but he was stuck driving the carriage. Isabelle reminded herself to thank him for braving the weather for them, and allowed herself to smile at knowing that her sisters would do the same. Foul moods or not, they would never forget their gratitude for their only male companion.

Even with the sour tempers and even sourer weather, though, Isabelle was having the time of her life. She’d never left Snow Park before, not even to go to a dance. Both of her sisters had – she’d fallen sick the one occasion Leopold offered to take them to town – but not she herself. This was like a dream come true. She would miss her home, of course – how could she not? – but she was leaving it for something new. Maybe she would finally find adventure. Maybe she would even find a friend.

“I think we’re close,” Emma mumbled, interrupting her elder sister’s thoughts. 

Isabelle glanced up to see Emma leaned half out the carriage window. Without thinking about it, her eyes snapped towards her elder sister, waiting for her to play mother as always. But Mary-Margaret was still focused on the passing scenery to their right. Isabelle sighed and leaned forward to tap Emma on the shoulder. 

“What do you see, Emma?” she asked. She mentally pushed aside her guilt for not tugging her sister back in – if Mary-Margaret wanted to baby her, that was well and good, but Isabelle was still her sister. 

Emma said nothing, but the gasp she made quite made up for it. Isabelle was caught between worry and relief when the noise caused Mary-Margaret to finally turn around. 

“What is it, Emma?” she asked, her voice hoarse from disuse. 

Their little sister popped back inside, an absolutely dazed expression on her face. “Oh, you’ll have to look for yourselves,” she said. “It’s unbelievable!”

“Whoa,” Graham’s voice called from outside. The carriage immediately began to slow, the squelching of the mud against the wheels a tell-tale sign. “We’ve arrived, misses Blanchard!”

The carriage had barely drawn to a stop when Emma was hopping from her seat and out the door. Her elder sisters shared a curious look before sighing and exiting themselves. 

“Now, what is it you’re so excited a –”

Isabelle choked, her mouth falling open in shock.

“I told you!” Emma shouted, already running for their new home. “This is brilliant!”

Isabelle turned swiftly to Mary-Margaret – whose expression, she was pleased to see, was just as overcome as her own – then looked once more upon the incredible setting. 

When Sir Victor had written about his “modest cottage”, Isabelle had anticipated a one-story hutch with a leaky roof and cold floors. Not ideal, of course, but better than another day with Regina. It was understandable, then, for her heart to fill with glee at the sight of the slim, two-story cabin. 

The entire front garden was overrun with Spanish moss and dense yard bushes, all of which curled out into the narrow road like wondrous living things. To the right, the road in question wound through a series of winding hills and mound, ending in the top of a nearby mansion. Sir Victor’s home, no doubt. And behind all of that was a small pond that stretched out far into the distant trees of the forest. The green light that filtered down from the moist leaves overhead only added to the surreal imagery. Isabelle was in love.

“I’m rather with Emma on this one,” Graham piped up, hefting the largest of the family’s bags off the back of the carriage. “It isn’t Snow Park, but it’ll more than make do. The forests look good for hunting, too. Definitely a bonus come winter.”

“It’s like a garden from a fairytale,” she agreed, her voice still hoarse with awe. “Rather like the ones mother used to read to us about. Don’t you think, Mary-Margaret?”

Her sister didn’t answer. Curious, she turned back around and repeated, “Mary-Margaret?”

Mary-Margaret whipped her head to the side, eyes full of surprise at being addressed. “What was that, Isabelle?”

She was about to tease her elder sister for being hard of hearing so early in life, but the look in her eyes stopped her cold. They were empty, shallow, sad. Perhaps not as severe a sadness as that which her eyes had conveyed after their father’s passing, but it was sadness all the same. Again, Isabelle cursed herself for knowing Mary-Margaret’s expressions so well – anyone else would have missed it, brief as the emotion lasted in her gaze. But not Isabelle. And, judging from Graham’s constant stare, he didn’t either. Isabelle cringed – disappointment in the size of their new home was something she could deal with. Heartbreak was not.

“Oh, it was nothing,” she said dismissively. “Let’s… let’s look inside, shall we? See where our rooms will be and such?”

Mary-Margaret nodded and, rather than expanding, lifted her hem and headed for their new home. Graham met Isabelle’s eyes in a worried glance, wordlessly asking if there was anything that could be done. She shook her head glumly and put her hand on his shoulder – they’d have to do something to keep her elder sister from being upset. They sighed glumly and picked up the final bags before following Mary-Margaret down the trail.

“You must come look!” Emma yelled, popping back out the front door just as Mary-Margaret reached it. Her normally stern face was twisted into a grand smile that made Isabelle want to grin herself. “There are four bedrooms. Graham, you’re taking one and I won’t hear another word about it. No more sleeping outside!”

Graham shook his head indulgently at her and ruffled her hair until she swatted him away. “As you wish, my lady.”

Emma stuck her tongue out at him before grabbing Isabelle and Mary-Margaret by the hands and dragging them inside. Even despite her worry, Isabelle couldn’t suppress her awe at the sight laid out before her. 

The hall and staircase were narrow to be sure, and the walls were indeed as damp as she’d feared, but the floors and wood-paneling seemed perfectly polished and, even better, brand new. The parlor to the right was humble but beyond suitable, framed with decadent white curtains and a small little fireplace in the corner. Isabelle smiled – it seemed she’d found her new reading room already. 

To the left was a simple sitting room, fit with a chaise lounge and matching settee and armchair set. The rug in the center of the floor was threadbare and damp, obviously in need of replacement, but they could do without for awhile, she was sure. A quick glance into the open doorway at the end of the sitting room showed an equally simple but generous-sized kitchen and dining room. The windowpanes were positively damp, but Isabelle could still see a wooden swing and treehouse perched in the back garden. She smiled – Emma would be happy to see that, if she hadn’t already. All in all, she was more than satisfied. Given a fresh coat of paint, she was certain that the place would look right as rain rather than feeling wet as rain.

Isabelle grabbed her bag and traipsed once more into the parlor. There were no bookshelves, unfortunately, but she could make do with setting her books (the only things she’d put in her small carry-on) on the end table for the time being. Lovingly, she placed her copies of Gulliver’s Travels, Justine, and The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire on a corner of the stand. She would have to ask Graham, once the weather cleared up, if he could make her an actual cabinet to shelve them in. Her own vanity was nonexistent, but that which she held for her books was immense. 

She had just settled down with All’s Well That Ends Well - her fourth time reading the little play - when the sound of wheels screeching against mud interrupted her.

“Hello, there!” a sharp, feminine voice called from outside. 

Isabelle spun about, looking for Mary-Margaret to clear away her confusion, but her elder sister had already dropped her own bag, lifted the corners of her lips, and headed for the door. It was amazing how quickly Mary-Margaret could don her pleasant façade. Concerned and curious, Isabelle wiped the sheen of sweat from her brow and followed suit, trying not to cringe when she tripped on the front step.

“There you are!” the woman’s voice cried again. Before Isabelle knew what was happening, a sheet of red and a swath of brown curls had embraced Mary-Margaret. “We were wondering when you’d get here!”

“You must be Sir Victor’s wife, then,” Mary-Margaret wheezed, hugging the woman back as best she could. Isabelle was pleased to see something of a genuine smile in her eyes – Mary-Margaret did love warm welcomes.

“Lady Scarlet Whale,” she laughed, turning quickly to wrap Isabelle in her arms just as Emma and Graham appeared behind them at the door. She tried to move her book so that it wouldn’t pierce her in the ribs, but her grasp was too tight. ”You can just call me Scarlet. And you?”

Isabelle stepped to the side so Scarlet could hug Emma (who looked irate at being touched by a stranger) and Graham (who seemed both terrified and amused) as Mary-Margaret took over her usual mothering role. 

“The one just behind you is Isabelle,” she began, “Emma’s the one to your right, our manservant, Graham Hunter, and I’m Mary-Margaret.” 

Scarlet finally let go of Graham and pushed her dark hair behind her ears. Isabelle was almost stunned at how lovely she was, her face almost elfin in its angularity and glowing peachy pale like the harvest moon. “Well, I’m pleased to meet you all.”

“As am I,” another voice added. 

All five of them whipped around to the new carriage on the path (which Isabelle, at least, had only just noticed) to see a towheaded man in brown suit. Scarlet grinned at him with her mouth wide open. 

“Husband, you oughtn’t sneak up on us like that!” she teased. 

Isabelle took a double take on the man – Sir Victor, it seemed. She never would’ve guessed that without Scarlet’s comment, youthful as he was. Most knights – or, at least, most knights that she’d read about – were stern and middle aged. Sir Victor seemed barely into his prime and full of the dignity beholden to a young lord.

“As if I could ever sneak up on you, my dear,” he smiled. He was much quieter than Isabelle had expected, too, far from the boisterous dignitary she’d been expecting. “Your hearing would give me away in an instant.”

Scarlet slapped him on the arm. “Cheeky thing,” she giggled. Isabelle smiled – she could see that she was going to like their new landlady. And, judging by her quiet chuckle, Mary-Margaret would, too.

“Well, is everything to your liking, Misses Blanchard?” Sir Victor asked, gesturing calmly to the cottage at their backs. “I know it’s small, but I hope it will suffice all the same.”

“It’s perfect, Sir Victor,” Mary-Margaret answered. “We couldn’t wish for more under our income.”

“Speaking of which,” Scarlet interrupted, “the real reason we came to call on you was to invite you up for tea. And Mr. Hunter, too, of course. My grandmother is an excellent cook, and she already has everything prepared. We know you’ve fallen on hard times, and my husband and I just wanted you to know that you can rely on us for meals at the very least.”

Mary-Margaret put her hand to her cheek, obviously touched by the gesture. Isabelle’s smile widened – she might end up liking Scarlet even more if she could constantly distract her sister from her heartache.

“I don’t know,” Mary-Margaret answered slowly, looking at both her sisters and Graham each in turn. “We would quite hate to put you out.”

“Nonsense,” Scarlet dismissed. Sir Victor nodded in stony agreement behind her. “My grandmother’s made quite enough food for the whole town, I assure you, and it will only be us three if you don’t join in.”

“Four,” Sir Victor corrected. “Colonel Gold – he’s a friend of mine from my service in the East Indies – should be dropping by soon.”

At that, Mary-Margaret violently shook her head. “Then I would hate even more to put you out. If you already have a guest –”

“He won’t mind,” Scarlet persisted. If Isabelle wasn’t much mistaken, Scarlet’s upper lip had snarled a bit at the mention of their other guest. Her curiosity was instantly piqued. “Please, Miss Mary-Margaret, I insist.”

“Well –”

“Please, Mary-Margaret?” Emma groaned, tugging at her sleeve. “I’m starving.”

Isabelle could tell that Mary-Margaret was about to chastise her for her rudeness, but then Emma’s stomach growled and the words seemed to die on her tongue. She sighed loudly and turned back to Scarlet.

“We’ll come for tea,” she nodded. “Just let us finish putting up our things.”

“We can send our staff to do it for you,” Scarlet protested. “Now, let us away before the food gets cold.”

Emma smiled wide with glee and raced immediately for the Whales’ carriage. Sir Victor and Graham followed suit, walking side-by-side without talking as men were wont to do. Isabelle started after them, but, remembering that she still held her book, turned around to put it back in the parlor. Again, though, she tripped on the embossed doorsill, causing the book to jump up in her palm. She glared at it, feeling like it was mocking her – she knew that she was nearing her favorite part of Act III and didn’t need it to remind her. It should also know that she was tempted enough to keep reading without such needless temptation. 

She peeked quickly in Mary-Margaret’s direction. Her elder sister was enrapt in conversation with Scarlet, it seemed, and hadn’t even noticed Isabelle had turned around. That settled it. Without pausing to think on it again, she shoved the manuscript into her apron pocket and followed them down the path. For Mary-Margaret’s sake, she promised herself not to read any of it until the meal was over.

Isabelle raced down the path and hopped into the carriage just as Graham and Sir Victor settled themselves on the driver’s seat. With a snap of the whip, they were off once again, headed this time for the manor at the end of the estate.

“Miss Mary-Margaret, were you being quite truthful when you said the cottage was satisfactory?” Scarlet asked almost as soon as the wheels were rolling. 

Mary-Margaret jumped in her seat and seemed to cow away from the woman sat beside her. “Yes,” she said meekly, more of a whine than a statement, it sounded. “We all thought it was quite lovely.” 

Scarlet, at least, looked just as nervous as Mary-Margaret. “I have no doubt that your sisters and Mr. Hunter appreciate it, but I meant you specifically. You seemed rather set-off by it.”

Mary-Margaret’s mouth twisted in confusion. If it weren’t so obvious that she was upset, Isabelle might have laughed – no one had ever called her elder sister out on her emotions before. Indeed, Isabelle thought that might be her idea of the worst possible insult. If someone saw her emotions, it meant she wasn’t hiding them properly, which Isabelle knew for a fact Mary-Margaret thought was rudeness.

“Don’t mind her,” Emma interrupted, looking slyly at their eldest sister. “She’s just upset because her suitor couldn’t come with us.”

Scarlet immediately brightened at that, though Mary-Margaret looked even more timid. 

“A suitor, you say?” Scarlet beamed. “And who would this lucky fellow happen to be, Miss Emma?”

“His name is Da –”

Isabelle lunged at her younger sister and clapped her hand over her mouth. Over her shoulder, she saw Mary-Margaret mouth the words “thank you”, and she nodded in return. 

“Emma, hush!” she scolded, only letting go when Emma bit her hand. “That’s impolite.”

“Oh, let her talk,” Scarlet simpered. “She’s just trying to indulge my curiosity.”

Emma huffed. “At least someone here thinks I should talk when I want to.”

Mary-Margaret smacked her on the knee and glared, an odd look considering that she was also trying to smile. “Emma, that’s quite enough. Besides, Lady Scarlet will get to meet him soon enough. He promised to visit, remember?”

Scarlet and Emma smiled and settled down once again, but now Isabelle had to refrain from speaking out of turn. She remembered what David had said very clearly, and, if she wasn’t much mistaken, he had implied that he wouldn’t be seeing them again ever. Granted, all he’d said was that he wouldn’t be visiting them soon, but Isabelle prided herself on understanding context clues. Mary-Margaret’s attention was fixed on their hostess, though, and Isabelle had no way of confirming her suspicious without mortifying her all over again. With a quiet huff, she plucked out her play and began to read. 

She’d barely reached Lavatch’s announcement of Bertram’s engagement to Helena when the carriage screeched again to a halt. 

“Here we are,” Scarlet said with a smile, and Isabelle lifted her eyes yet again, prepared to be shell-shocked at the sight of the manor proper. At least, she thought she was prepared. 

Isabelle had never seen a castle in person, but, if she had to hazard a guess, she would assume they looked quite a bit like Storybrooke Manor. It had actual turrets, and, if one looked up a little higher, actual gargoyles, too. A series of large banisters trailed along the outer walls and windows, and he front garden was fitted with a lovely pool and fountain that Isabelle was dying to swim in, propriety be dashed. 

“Oh, Scarlet, this is gorgeous,” she sighed, tracing every inch of the large building with her eyes.

Their landlady smiled wryly at her praise. “If I could, I’d have you move directly in with us. I’m sorry that the cottage pales in comparison.”

Isabelle shook her head vehemently. “Not at all. I still think we got the better deal in it than you have in your whole house. It’s humble, for certain, but lovelier by far. Rather a testament to my bad taste, I think, but there you have it.”

Before Mary-Margaret could get onto her for expressing so bold an opinion, a plump, elderly woman with small spectacles and silver ringlets rushed at them from the door, her arms wide open in greeting.

“Welcome, welcome!” her booming voice called out. For the second time that day, Isabelle found herself embraced by a pair of heaving bosoms that left her choking – it seemed that the woman had managed to grab Mary-Margaret in the hug, too. “I’m Mrs. Lucas, Scarlet’s granny. Come on in, I’ve got tea waiting for you inside.”

As it had begun to drizzle once again, the four girls, Graham, and Sir Victor wasted no time in following after her. 

Victor took all their coats once they’d entered inside, hanging them swiftly on the rack by the door. His eyes creased when he noticed the empty nook farthest from them. “Has the colonel not arrived?” he asked.

“No,” Mrs. Lucas huffed, still busying about filling everyone’s teacups. Isabelle rather thought she sounded just as irate at mention of the colonel as her granddaughter had. “Now, the food is getting cold. You’d best tuck in yourselves before I have to force you. I assure you, my cake is the best you’ve ever had.”

She wasn’t lying, it turned out. Tea was delicious, and was, indeed, one of the best meals Isabelle had ever had. The sponge cake, as Mrs. Lucas had promised, was light enough that she could eat several pieces without feeling full (a plus, considering that it tasted like sumptuous fluff and spun sugar), the salted meat had been fried to perfection, and the tea tasted faintly of blueberries. If it weren’t for her love of books, she might’ve declared her love to Mrs. Lucas instead.

It had been years since she or her sisters had been invited to another’s home, so Isabelle was somewhat surprised (and even more embarrassed because of her surprise) when the Whales invited them to stay and talk afterwards. As usual, though, no one chose to address her, so Isabelle felt it safe to resume reading. She smiled at the realization that she was nearing another of Helena’s monologues.

“I would so love a bit of entertainment,” Scarlet sighed. “Tell me, Miss Mary-Margaret, do any of you play the piano or sing?”

“I’m afraid not,” Mary-Margaret sighed. “Well, I used to sing, when I was Emma’s age, but I had to stop lessons after our mother died.”

Scarlet turned as red as her namesake and put her hand to her mouth.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Miss Blanchard. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It isn’t your fault, Scarlet. You had no way of knowing.”

Isabelle saw the woman lean over to pat Mary-Margaret’s hand. “Still, I am terribly sorry. I lost both of my parents, too. I don’t know what I’d do without my granny.”

“You’d do just fine, girl,” Mrs. Lucas answered, stomping about the room to collect everyone’s teacups. “That husband of yours wouldn’t do wrong by you and you know it. Least of all because he’d fear the wrath of my ghost.” 

Sir Victor frowned at the older woman, and the room immediately erupted into laughter. 

“Anyway,” she continued, “at least you’ve got your sisters to rely on, Miss Blanchard. Or two of them, anyway. I don’t understand all this nonsense about backstabbing kin, so your sister Regina rather confounds me.”

“Granny!” Scarlet snapped.

The old woman shrugged but otherwise continued on her way. “I’m just calling it as I see it. I read the letter Miss Isabelle wrote our Victor, and, from what she said, I’m surprised that none of you tried to poison her tea.”

Emma snorted loudly from her corner of the couch, and Isabelle had to draw on all her decorum to keep from joining her. Unfortunately, distracted as she was by trying not to laugh whilst still reading her book, she didn’t notice when Mary-Margaret spun around to face her, no doubt prepared to berate her for insulting their “generous” half-sister. Instead, she saw the open page, and became even more irate.

“Isabelle, put that away!” Mary-Margaret cried, smacking the book out of her hands. Isabelle gasped and lunged bodily to take it back, but her sister was too fast. “I’m so sorry, I –”

“Let the girl read,” Sir Victor chuckled. “She seems to take quite a delight in it. Don’t you, dear?”

Isabelle blushed, but, despite Mary-Margaret’s opinions, even she wasn’t rude enough to avoid a direct question. “I do indeed, sir,” she answered a bit too tersely. “Books are my favorite pastime.”

Victor took a steady sip of his brandy and nodded. “Mine, too. Though, we probably have quite different tastes in reading materials. Mine leans more towards medical journals.”

“But I love to read everything!” Isabelle insisted. “I’ve read poetry, law reports, histories. It’s like travelling without ever having to leave the room.”

“And what is it you’re reading now, Miss Isabelle?”

“Shakespeare. All’s Well that Ends Well. Not one of my favorites, but I’m working my way through alphabetically.”

Victor smiled at her. “Well, I must say that I am impressed.”

“As am I,” Scarlet giggled. “I’ve never heard my husband talk so much in one setting. It’s a miracle.”

With a defeated slump of her shoulders, Mary-Margaret turned and put the book back into Isabelle’s hands. It pained her to see her sister so discomfited, even though she’d embarrassed Isabelle to begin with. She was about to call it a night, resolved to apologize to Mary-Margaret when they were alone, when Lady Scarlet gave a little squeal.

“I know!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together in joy. “How would you like to read us a bit from that book of yours, Miss Isabelle? I’m sure you could deliver quite a performance.”

Emma piped in before Isabelle could even open her mouth. “Oh, she does,” she said, nodding vigorously. “She changes her voice for the parts and everything.”

“That settles it, then,” Mrs. Lucas grinned. “Miss Isabelle, if you please?”

Isabelle blushed, but she didn’t even consider turning the offer down. Much as she disliked being the center of attention, she did so love to read, and at least this way she could do so without inciting Mary-Margaret’s ire.

Smiling, Isabelle stood to her feet, turned the page, and began.

“Then I confess, Here on my knee, before high heaven and you…”

————————————————————————————————————————————

Colonel Gold removed his felt hat as he stepped into the Whale residence, shaking loose his long hair to remove the rain from it. The chill felt good on his shoulders, and he allowed himself a breath of relief. He’d take whatever small comfort he could get today. Lord knew he’d likely get an earful from Mrs. Lucas and a number of snide looks from Mrs. Whale. If the two women weren’t so adept at their cooking (and, loathe as he was to admit it, respectful enough to allow him to eat it), he would turn them down every time. 

Gold sighed and hung up his cane and overcoat. That wasn’t quite true, either. Strange and sly as Victor was, he was still one of very few people whom he could call “friend”. Still, if Jefferson’s wife were as good at preparing a meal as she was at preparing tea, he might be inclined to spend more time over there instead, damn the distance between their respective mansions.

“Nor would I have him till I do deserve him…”

Gold’s hand stilled on the coat rack, his head tilted in confusion. That didn’t sound like Lady Scarlet. Didn’t sound like her grandmother, either, for that matter. His brow wrinkled – Victor hadn’t said there would be other guests.

“Yet never know how that desert should be. I know I love in vain, strive against hope…”

It didn’t sound like much of a conversation. Indeed, it sounded more like a recital. Curious, he took a few steps closer to the parlor and leaned in.

He groaned. Shakespeare – he might’ve known. Likely, they’d invited some presumptuous twit who preferred to feign loftiness with her rhetoric rather than playing music like any other girl would. The idea left a horrid taste in his mouth, rather like the memory of his last (and only) two affairs. He was only thankful that he still had time to sneak out if need be. He could make up some excuse to Victor later.

“… I still pour in the waters of my love…”

A flash of lightning split the sky overhead, coinciding perfectly with the reader’s words. Gold groaned again – he wasn’t daft enough to fear the rain, but he’d much prefer being out of it than being in it. He supposed he could sneak a peek at Scarlet’s guest, ascertain how irritating they were going to be, and then make his decision accordingly. If being soaked through to his skin was a better option than sharing their company, then so be it.

He stepped forward into the parlor, leaning against the shadows by the doorframe. It was simple enough a hiding place that no one would see him without looking purposely in his direction whilst still giving him a bird’s eye view of the young girl in the center of the room. And young was most certainly the operative word. She was younger even than Scarlet, by the looks of things. Her chestnut hair curled up in the back, spreading tendrils of frizz all over her shoulders. Gold hummed in the back of his throat – low class. He remembered the feeling. 

“… religious in my error, I adore the sun, that looks upon his worshipper…”

Much as he was loathe to admit it, Gold couldn’t help but be impressed by the girl’s reading. She acted it out without playing an arrogant fop, adding a certain appeal and realism to the character’s voice that he wouldn’t have heard otherwise. Perhaps she wouldn’t be a bore after all.

“… but knows of him no more. My dearest madam, let not your hate encounter with my love…”

But there he finally had something to critique. The way she spoke of love deceived her in an instant, speaking volumes about how little she knew on the subject. Youthful as she was, she only knew the ideals of love, the optimistic joy it was said to bring in fairytales and stories. She knew nothing of the pain and sorrow. He didn’t yet know the girl, but he was glad on her behalf for that fact.

“… did ever in so true a flame of liking, Wish chastely and love dearly, than your Dian.”

The young girl’s voice tapered off, obviously intent on ending the monologue there. Again, Gold couldn’t quite say he blamed her – he’d always thought that this particular play fell into Shakespeare’s less than respectable works. 

“Bravo, Miss Isabelle, bravo!” Mrs. Lucas called, drowning out her granddaughter’s insipid clapping. He dropped his head and gave it another errant shake – whatever Victor’s visitor was like, it seemed that his wife and in-law would be just as bothersome as ever. He sighed – best get this over with quickly. Gold lifted his head, stepped forward on his still-shaky leg.

And then he stopped dead, all the breath knocked out of his body in one fell swoop.

The girl – Miss Isabelle, he presumed – had lifted her head at the sound of his footsteps, and she now looked directly at him with the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen. They were like the clearest water, bright blue and unshadowed by the things that haunted so many others. Something wise lurked inside them, though, wise enough to explain how she could convey such understanding of each word on her page even though she seemed barely out of her girlhood. 

Without meaning to, his eyes honed in on every curve, every plane, of her face, intent on memorizing it even before he’d realized that was his intention. Her mouth was a perfect little bow, soft and pink and so so very pretty. Gold licked his own chapped mouth self-consciously, though he wasn’t quite sure what he had to be self-conscious about in this moment. Maybe it was the certain inferiority that swept over him, a feeling that he normally hated but here embraced. She was several years his junior, of much lower stock considering her dress, and had nothing but an adeptness for rhetoric to endorse her, but he felt so very small in her presence. It wasn’t hard for him to understand why, though – there was a certain air about her, a genuineness, a generosity of spirit which was entirely new to his experience. He didn’t mean to feel this, either, but he suddenly found himself longing to be touched by it. To be touched by her.

Gold gulped and tugged at his cravat. He was too old by far to believe in love at first sight. He’d given that up years ago when his first “true love” turned her back on him. 

But he couldn’t deny that there was something, something so much more than her incredible beauty, which drew her through him like a needle and thread. 

“Ah, there you are, old boy!” Victor sounded, interrupting him from his thoughts. Isabelle twitched, and Gold realized that she’d been looking at him the whole time, too. A trickle ran down the back of his neck, but it was born from sweat, not rain. 

“Yes,” Gold said moronically, finally forcing his eyes away from girl. He saw her do the same in his peripheral and almost sighed in relief. “Sorry I’m late, Victor. I had some business to attend to in town.”

“No matter,” his friend smiled, clapping him by the shoulder and guiding him into the room. He was thankful that he didn’t buckle on his bum ankle. “You’re here now, that’s the thing. Now, have you met our new tenants?”

Gold’s dumbly shook his head no. Honestly, three seconds of staring at Miss Isabelle’s eyes and he’d gone completely daft.

Thankfully, Victor noticed as much as he normally did – a lump sum of nothing – and merely dragged him alone to the ladies seated at the opposite couch. His eyebrows wrinkled in confusion – he hadn’t even noticed them sitting there.

“May I introduce our cousins Miss Blanchard, Miss Isabelle, and Miss Emma, and their manservant, Mr. Hunter.”

The four guests waved at him, and he prided himself on managing to incline his head in turn. 

“Well,” Scarlet interrupted, clapping her hands together once more and firmly avoiding making eye contact with him, “now that we’ve enough people for a proper party, the four of you must stay a little longer.”

Gold bit the inside of his cheek – Scarlet wanted no such thing as a “proper party” and he knew it. She just didn’t want to suffer his company without someone else to buffer it. Hard as she tried, he couldn’t keep from sneering at the girl – the feeling was mutual, after all.

“I’m not wonderful company,” he snarked, enjoying the way that Scarlet’s lip curled in agreement with him, “but I must insist that you stay as well. It’s pouring like mad outside.”

The eldest – Miss Blanchard, he thought – nodded and gave him a polite and gracious smile. “Thank you, sir… I’m sorry, I don’t believe I caught your name.”

Victor frowned at himself. “Yes, sorry about that. This is Colonel Rum Gold.”

A funny snort caught his attention, and he turned to see Miss Isabelle staring at him with her head cocked and her mouth hidden behind her hand. She looked lovely when she laughed.

Meanwhile, the youngest girl hopped off the sofa and circled around to see his face, eyes narrowed at him in suspicion. “I thought rum was a drink, not a name. Or is it some Scottish thing?”

Gold chuckled – precocious thing, this one. “Nickname, dearie,” he answered, laying his accent on thick for her benefit. “That daft fool you call a landlord gave it to me in the Indies after an unsavory incident with the locals. My real name is Christopher.”

Over the young girl’s shoulder, he saw Miss Isabelle mouth his name. His throat went dry, tightening in itself to an uncomfortable degree – how would her melodic voice sound when saying his true name? When saying any name of his, for that matter?

In the safety of his mind, Gold cursed and kicked himself in the arse. This was ridiculous.

“Pardon me for a moment, misses Blanchard,” he coughed, “but I must move my horse into the stable. I’m afraid that I forgot.”

He gave them a chance to nod at him and even managed a smile in return before he stumbled into the hallway. He breathed in deeply, pressing his face to the cold wall as he attempted to calm himself down.

“Relax, you old bastard,” he hissed at himself. “She’s just a girl. Just an intelligent, beautiful girl. Now get those thoughts out of your head before you make a fool of yourself.”

Gold sucked in another breath, closed his eyes in concentration. But it was no use – nothing he did could erase Miss Isabelle from his mind. 

He sighed. Good an actor she may be, but he was more than her equal – he could pass the afternoon with perfect composure, even if his insides were raging at the memory of her eyes. He could, and he would.

He gave himself a final shake, righted his vest and cravat, and, throwing decorum aside, removed his cane from the wall hanging as he returned to the parlor. 

Gold managed not to ogle Miss Isabelle like a common blackheart when she danced about the room helping Mrs. Lucas clean up. He succeeded in not laughing with her when she told an innocent joke to her younger sister. And he only smiled at her a little when she returned easily to her reading, obviously more enrapt in the lives of her characters than anything that was going on around her. 

But inside his own head, he was screaming. He wasn’t a pleasant man, nor even a particularly good one, of that he knew. Yet it took every ounce of willpower in his possession to keep from forcing his dour presence on the girl just for a chance sit by her side. 

Exhaling, he turned from the girl to circle the room, the fifth time he’d done so in the last hour. Thankfully, the only person who seemed to notice was Mr. Hunter, and he seemed more concerned than suspicious. He briefly entertained the thought of chatting with the man, asking about his hobbies and, more importantly, how well he knew Miss Isabelle. The idea was daft, though – if he was going to ask about her, he’d have to do it much more subtly than that. 

His eyes fell once more on the settee where Scarlet sat with Miss Emma and Miss Blanchard. He’d never dare to ask Victor’s wife – there was no love between them, nor even an ounce of friendly acquaintanceship, so whatever he said was bound to be met with snide suspicion. He supposed he’d get the same reaction from Miss Emma, too, judging by the keenness in her eyes. She’d sniff out his intentions like a rabid wolf and parade them about like only well-meaning children could do. He smiled at the thought but shook his head. No, that wouldn’t do – his only other option was the eldest Miss Blanchard. 

Gold turned on his cane and wandered over to the three young women, not even attempting to be stealthy this time but seeming to manage all the same.

“I am sorry for Victor’s quiet nature,” Scarlet was muttering, eyes tacked on her husband and her grandmother. “He’s more of a thinker than a speaker, really.”

Miss Blanchard shook her head with a smile. Gold was beginning to think that that was the only expression she knew to make. “No need to apologize, Scarlet.”

“Indeed,” he interjected. Both women jumped, and Gold tried not be pleased with that effect of his presence. “The good doctor has always been that way.”

Miss Blanchard’s brow furrowed. “Doctor?”

“Aye. Best physician we had in the trenches. That’s why he was knighted, after all – I swear, he had the power to raise the dead he was so good at what he did. Scared the Frenchmen out of their minds, being marched on by men they’d taken down just the day before.” He scoffed. “Well, that’s not saying much – the French could be scared out of their minds by a rabbit – but the point stands.”

Scarlet glared daggers at him, and he smirked in response – talking about war was always a surefire way to get her to leave.

“Excuse me, Miss Mary-Margaret,” she said through clenched teeth, “but I must speak to my grandmother about something.”

She swept off without a word to either of her guests, leaving Miss Blanchard entirely perplexed and obviously somewhat put-off by the man before her. Gold gestured with his eyes to the newly vacated seat, both hands clenched over his cane, until the woman finally took the hint.

“Please sit down, colonel,” she invited, scooting over under the pretense of giving him more room. He knew it was because she feared his company, but he didn’t press the matter. 

“Thank you, Miss Blanchard,” he grinned, hoping he looked welcoming instead of threatening. He could tell he hadn’t succeeded – her pleasant demeanor was harder to crack than if her face had been merely blank, but her eyes gave everything away. She trusted him as far as she could throw him. He cringed, thinking through all the ways he could potentially flatter her before deciding on, “Forgive me for my abruptness, but you have a lovely family.”

Her eyes brightened considerably at that, and Gold mentally patted himself on the back. “Why thank you, colonel. I assure you that you haven’t seen us at our best, though.”

He politely shook his head. “On the contrary, dearie. You seem to be a responsible young woman, and your sisters are both amusing in their own rights. The best anyone could hope for, I believe.”

He’d actually made her blush. “Again, I must express my gratitude. Isabelle’s almost grown, of course, but I feel like both she and Emma could very well be my daughters.”

“Understandable, considering you have no parents.”

The flush faded from her cheeks, and Gold instantly cursed himself – just the mention of Isabelle’s name had him floundering, it seemed. 

“How did you know about our parents?” she asked warily.

Gold shrugged as nonchalantly as he could manage. “Ach, it would be obvious to anyone, dearie. The way you coddle the both of them, the way they both so obviously look up to you. And besides that, there’s no one else here – even a fool could infer from that that you are all that remains of your family.”

“Very keen of you,” she muttered, her whole body deflating even as her smile remained pinned in place. “Yes, I suppose I’m the matriarch of our family now. Our mother died just shortly after Emma was born, and our fa… our father recently followed.”

He would’ve patted the young woman’s hand had he felt she would welcome his comfort. “I am sorry, dearie. I know it’s no consolation, but, from what I’ve seen, you’ve held up well enough in their place.”

Her cheek inched up a little more, but not enough to assure him that she was alright. The only solution was to move the conversation on to something safe. Miss Isabelle, for example. His desire to converse about the girl had nothing to do with it – he was merely trying to apologize to the young woman he’d just upset. 

He kept that lie in mind as he asked, “How old are your sisters, if you don’t mind my asking? They both seem rather too old for their age.”

Miss Blanchard chuckled. “I’d say that’s an understatement. Isabelle will be eighteen in the fall, and Emma just turned thirteen.”

“I know a boy that falls just between those ages,” Gold murmured. “A handful, I know. But they seem rather more polite, and more educated at that.”

He was already thinking about ways to distract Miss Blanchard from asking about the boy in question, but he was saved – or, perhaps, further endangered – by the entrance of both her sisters.

“Now Emma, what could possibly be so interesting about us that they’d have to devote a whole conversation to the topic?” Miss Isabelle teased, turning a mocking eye from Miss Blanchard to him. His heart beat erratically, but he thought he hid it well enough.

“We were just making introductions, Isabelle,” Miss Blanchard answered cheekily. “And, in fact, he was complimenting your education. Had you eavesdropped a little longer, perhaps we’d have moved on to your love of books.”

Miss Isabelle stuck her tongue out at that, and Gold decided that it wasn’t necessary for his heart to work after all. Still, he had to be a little thankful when Emma stepped into his face, arms and mouth both crossed into a much too serious expression for any thirteen-year-old.

“Have you really been to India?” she inquired. 

Gold grinned at the young girl – he could quickly find himself making a friend in her if he wasn’t more careful. “Indeed I have. Spent a good fifteen years there, in actual fact.”

Miss Isabelle positively beamed at that, her eyes filled with desperate wanderlust. He promptly clamped down his lips to keep from promising her a trip to the Indies himself. 

“I’ve always wanted to travel,” she sighed. “Tell us, colonel, what was it like?” 

Emma sniffed. “I bet it was hot and stinking.”

A sly look overtook Gold’s eyes. He patted his vest pocket to ensure that what he needed was there, then leaned in to Emma’s ear and whispered mysteriously,

“The air is full of spices…”

Before either of the girls could ask what he meant, he snapped his fingers before Miss Emma’s eyes and materialized a single, vivid bloom of saffron. Miss Blanchard jumped back in surprise, but her younger sisters only widened their eyes.

“How did you do that?” Emma snapped, trying and dismally failing to look disinterested. 

He took advantage of her curiosity by waving his hands about in the most extravagant gesture he could manage before smirking, “Magic, dearie!”

Gold pressed the light purple bloom to her face, wordlessly suggesting that she take it. She took a single sniff of the thing and wrinkled her nose.

“It smells too… heavy,” she coughed, backing away as if it had offended her. 

But Miss Isabelle looked on it with wonder, and, before he could stop himself, he found his hands shaking in her direction.

“Here, if you’ll have it,” he offered.

Miss Isabelle grinned graciously and snapped it from his fingers, briefly caressing his along the way. It burned a trail across his skin, and he feared he’d keep the memory of that touch with him forever.

“You can use the stamen as seasoning in your food,” he stammered, the words spilling from his mouth like vomit. “Or you could put it in a glass and keep it by the window. They’re from India, after all, they like sunlight.”

Her smile stretched even wider, a feat he hadn’t thought possible. He applauded himself for sitting – had he been standing up, he was sure he would’ve fallen at her brilliance. 

“Thank you, colonel. I’ll ask Mrs. Lucas to help me find a home for it,” she murmured. “If you’ll excuse me.”

He pined after her as she swept away, watching every swish of her dress like a man possessed. Whether or not he was in love with her was immaterial – he was obsessed, and that was more than enough to warrant him a seat in Hell, he was sure. He never should’ve come today. And he never should’ve looked so long into Miss Isabelle’s eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

Wholly Unspoilt (6/?)  
a Sense & Sensibility AU

Rating: PG-13 (b/c a certain someone who really likes making sexual innuendos is introduced in this chapter -_-)

Author’s Note: I’m really, really sorry for the long wait, guys. As such,I shall keep this one brief and just ask that you guys enjoy. Oh, and be sure to tell me what you think of the characterization - I felt like I totally screwed it up this time, and I’d like to know what I can do to fix it.

 

The first week of their stay at Storybrooke Cottage went better than Isabelle could ever have hoped for. Graham now had acres upon acres in which to hunt, a fact which their afternoon teas could wholly support, and looked more at peace than Isabelle could ever remember seeing him. Emma, on the other hand, had become rather more excitable. Not only did she have a lovely new treehouse to call her own, but she had much more room inside their very house in which she could be alone if she so wished (which, to be fair, she often did). If it weren’t for the fact that she loved Mrs. Lucas’s food just as much as the rest of them, Isabelle was certain they might never see her at all. And, thankfully, Scarlet’s friendship seemed to be doing wonders for Mary-Margaret’s disposition. Her elder sister still waited anxiously for their mail to be delivered, still raced to the window when she heard a carriage coming down the lane, but the sadness in her eyes had finally begun to chip away. It wasn’t enough, not by a longshot, but it was certainly a start.

As for Isabelle herself, though…

She appreciated the new surroundings, to be sure. As she’d said upon their arrival, the cottage was like something straight out of a fairytale. She admired Sir Victor’s love of books (even if the only books he enjoyed were medical journals and the like), adored Scarlet’s humor and good sense for starting conversation, and greatly appreciated Mrs. Lucas’s mandatory suppers at the Park. But none of that was what caught her attention. No – much to her surprise, she found herself far more intrigued by the colonel.

He wasn’t a talkative man, to be sure. Indeed, Isabelle was hard pressed to think of a single moment in which he’d spoken more than two sentences in a row, and was even harder pressed to think of one when he hadn’t been talking to Sir Victor. But his downright mysterious nature only made Isabelle want to know more. She saw him as a good book, a tome just waiting to be opened and read.

Though, the closest she’d yet gotten to reading him were those rare moments when she’d catch him staring at her. At first, she thought he found her irritating – a poor girl parading about with her sisters in their rich cousin’s home would tend to cause that impression, she was sure. The more she caught him, though, the more she realized that his eyes were far more pensive than degrading. Had she not known better, she might’ve assumed he was just as curious about her as she was about him. And though he set everyone else but Sir Victor on edge, she couldn’t help but find a certain peace on the rare occasions when he deigned to sit beside her. 

All in all, she couldn’t have been happier, either with him or their new lifestyle. 

But, like all good things, she should’ve known not to take such happiness for granted. 

Knock, knock.

“Isabelle, might you get the door?” Mary-Margaret called from the kitchen, her voice somewhat muffled by the whistling of the tea kettle. 

Isabelle nodded, even though there was no chance that Mary-Margaret could see her do so hidden behind her book in the parlor, and saved her page before going to the door. One of the Whales’ servants greeted her on the stoop and handed her a packet of letters before marching on his way. Isabelle sorted through them, shaking her head at the realization that most were redirected missives regarding housing options, and was about to set them aside and go back to reading when she noticed a familiar script. For one ecstatic moment, she thought it might be from David, but the handwriting was much too neat and formal to belong to him. It took only another moment for her to recognize it as their banker’s. 

“Mary-Margaret!” she called, curiously popping the seal on the heavy parchment. “We’ve a letter from town.”

She heard Mary-Margaret ask what it was about over the whistling of the pot, but she was already scanning through the page. By the time Mary-Margaret finally entered with her apron draped over her arm and two cups of tea in hand, she’d already read over it twice. She wasn’t quite sure, for her fury rather dulled her ability to sense her own facial expressions, but she thought that her frown had deepened with each new line on the paper.

“Isabelle, what’s wrong?” her elder sister asked, confirming the worst of her suspicions.

She had to take a deep breath to keep from shouting. It wasn’t Mary-Margaret’s fault this had happened, after all, far from it. No, it was their other sister who was to blame for this one. 

“It seems,” she started slowly, surprising even herself with how dangerously low her voice sounded, “that our annual income might be significantly stripped down.”

Mary-Margaret set their cups on the table, every inch of her face etched with worry. “How significantly?”

Isabelle inhaled again and glanced away. “£200.”

Mary-Margaret’s hand flew to her mouth. “£200 a year?”

Isabelle nodded. 

“But… but I thought we were promised 600. How could this happen?”

“Apparently,” Isabelle wrinkled her nose, “Regina found a clause in father’s will which has apparently declared the other 400 unlawful property which we have no right to inherit.”

Mary-Margaret looked entirely bewildered, and Isabelle was overcome with the sudden urge to bash her elder sister over the head whilst simultaneously holding her. How could she not suspect Regina of such villainy? How, after everything else the vile woman had done, could she no accept this as her nature?

But Isabelle held her tongue. Now wasn’t the time to restart an argument that she knew she couldn’t win.

“The courts haven’t yet come to a consensus,” she allowed. “This might turn out to be nothing.”

Mary-Margaret smiled, but it was just as vapid and vacant as always. Part of Isabelle’s heart broke for her – she once trusted Isabelle with her every emotion, her every secret. And now she trusted no one. 

Much as Isabelle loved David, she wished for nothing more than to line the man up in front of a shooting range and have him punished for breaking what little of her sister’s spirit that hadn’t already been tainted by the burden of acting as sole provider. 

“Yes, but I don’t want to take any chances,” she finally replied. “I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

Isabelle furrowed her brow. “What do you intend for us to do? I know you’re against asking Sir Victor for help, but –”

“But I still am, Isabelle,” Mary-Margaret cut her off tiredly. “He’s done enough for us as it is.” She took a sip of tea and sighed. “We could sell baskets, I suppose. The back garden’s full enough with reeds and cattails that we could make a good start of it. And before you say anything, yes, I realize it won’t be enough to cover our expenses. But it’s the best I can think of – I won’t have us working in sweat shops.”

Isabelle leaned her head on her sister’s shoulder and held her waist. It was what their father had always done when one of them had had a bad day. The sudden release of tension in Mary-Margaret’s abdomen let Isabelle know that she hadn’t forgotten. Not that she thought anything of their father’s would ever be forgotten by Mary-Margaret. 

“I wasn’t going to say anything, Mary-Margaret,” she promised softly. “I know it’s the best we can do.”

Mary-Margaret nodded solemnly. Isabelle worried over the stoniness in her eyes, but couldn’t help being relieved when her elder sister patted her hand. She smiled for barely a second and hugged her tighter.

“What should we tell Emma?”

As if answering to her name, a shout of disgust sounded from outside. Mary-Margaret and Isabelle both glanced out the window, some of their sadness seeping away at the sight of Emma running around Graham’s legs and retching at the stick of rabbits he’d caught. 

“We won’t say a thing,” Mary-Margaret finally answered. “Let her be a child a little longer.”

Isabelle bit her lip. Yes, Emma was still in many ways a child, and she deserved to have the freedom to act as such, but Isabelle still couldn’t feel quite right about lying to her. One look at Mary-Margaret’s eyes, though, was enough to convince her to stay silent – if this was she wanted, she would go along with it. She only hoped it was for the best.

“Well, no time like the present,” she sighed, releasing her sister’s waist. “It’s a sunny day, it’s still early enough to be cool. I say we get started at once.”

“Get started on what?”

Isabelle and Mary-Margaret both jumped away from the window as if shot. 

A head of grey curls popped into the pane before them, though, and they both sighed in relief – it was just Mrs. Lucas. 

“Sorry to scare you, dears,” she said brusquely, dragging her granddaughter into frame with her.

“Well, you do strike a rather imposing figure, granny,” Scarlet laughed, her smile wide and bright. “Anyway, we didn’t mean to invite ourselves over, but it’s such a lovely day and we wanted to know if you’d like to take a picnic with us. We won’t even have to leave the cottage lawn – it looks perfect for us.”

Mary-Margaret smiled at their landladies and nodded. “Of course! It’s no imposition on our part at all. Isabelle and I were just going outside to make baskets.”

Scarlet’s opened her mouth, obviously confused about why they would venture out to do such a thing, but Mary-Margaret cut her off seamlessly without seeming the slightest bit rude. Isabelle silently admired her elder sister’s skill in dealing with people – the good Lord knew that Isabelle hadn’t inherited any of what was obviously their mother’s temperament. 

“I must ask, though, what do you intend to have for this picnic?” she asked tranquilly. “I noticed you didn’t bring anything with you, and I’m afraid that we only have the game that Graham has brought us.”

Scarlet waved her off, her momentary confusion utterly forgotten. “Oh, Victor is bringing it with him. He’ll be along shortly – had some business to attend to first.”

Mary-Margaret blanched. “Oh, if we’re interrupting him –”

“Not at all,” Mrs. Lucas huffed. “It’ll do him good to interact with civilized society.”

Isabelle smirked – it seemed that their landlord was with Colonel Gold today. She opened her mouth, about to inquire if he’d be joining them, as well, but Scarlet stepped forward yet again before she could get a word in.

“Which, speaking of polite society,” she said, taking both hers and Mary-Margaret’s hands with a conspiring smile, “there’s to be a ball in Winchester at the end of next month.”

Mary-Margaret chuckled. “And what provoked you to tell us this?” 

“Because she intends to marry you off,” Mrs. Lucas snorted. “Now that she’s happily married, her only goal in life is to see all of her friends do the same.”

“Oh hush,” Scarlet giggled, slapping her grandmother playfully on the shoulder. “I just thought it might be nice for the two of you to get out. And if you should happen to find some eligible young gentlemen there…”

Her sister’s eyes drew taut around the corners, but her smile remained just as pleasant as ever. Isabelle blushed, and had to force herself not to groan – Lord knew Mary-Margaret wouldn’t think of anyone else with David still fresh in her mind, even if Scarlet didn’t. It would be so much easier just to blurt out that she was already taken, remind her of Emma’s slip in the carriage on their first day, but Mary-Margaret would see it as rude and would likely deny it anyway. If she wouldn’t even admit to Isabelle and Emma that she was in love, what chance was there that she’d admit it to the Lucas women?

“Scarlet,” she started carefully, “I’d hardly wish to put you in such a position –”

“Nonsense, I’m the one who suggested it!” Scarlet’s grin hadn’t dimmed in the least, and it was apparent to Isabelle at least that she would not take any hint they attempted to toss her way, no matter how blatant. “It will be no imposition on me at all. Now, you must at least think on it. You’re the same age now as I myself when Victor proposed.”

“I’m surprised you remember it, dear, what with it being all those three years ago,” Mrs. Lucas smirked. 

Scarlet paid her no mind. “Well, that’s Miss Mary-Margaret accounted for,” she continued, as if striking off items on a list. “And you, Miss Isabelle? Sixteen and no prospects?”

Behind her back, Isabelle’s nails dug into her wrist. “I’m seventeen, actually.”

To her credit, Scarlet didn’t seem affronted at the least. “Then we must convince you! Two pretty young ladies as yourselves? Why, you’ll have the whole party in the palm of your hands!” 

Mary-Margaret smiled and simpered, the gears in her mind obviously whirring to come up with what she considered a polite excuse. Isabelle turned away, hoping she didn’t seem rude but not wanting to indulge in the conversation any longer, either. Scarlet meant no harm, she knew, but that didn’t stop the topic from stinging. It was obvious that her elder sister felt the same, but, based on the glare she shot her from the corner of her eye, Isabelle also thought it rather obvious that she would trudge on for propriety’s sake anyway. She sighed.

“Well, I’m going to send Emma in to get ready, shall I?” she said mildly, hoping it was a good enough excuse for their guests. She needn’t have worried, though – after a moment’s concern, Scarlet had leapt just as excitedly back into talk of balls and gowns and eligible bachelors. There was a strain in Mary-Margaret’s expression, a hurt that was likely invisible to their landladies, but Isabelle saw it easily. As always, though, if her sister insisted on torturing herself, she had nothing in her power to stop her.

Heart in her throat, she turned away and marched into the back garden, grabbing her sister’s discarded apron and one of Graham’s hunting knives along the way. Emma was still pestering him when she exited the back door, poking his leg and deriding him for how disgusting his rabbits looked, but Isabelle had entirely forgotten what she’d told Mary-Margaret and let them continue with their play rather than sending them inside to get dressed. She hid from them, skirting along the edge of the house lest they ask what she was doing, and headed for the willow tree by the pond instead. Impossible as it was for her to look content when she was troubled, it would be in everyone’s best interest if she just isolated herself behind the vines. Maybe it would be in everyone’s best interest if she stayed there for the rest of her life.

Isabelle’s eighteenth birthday was to be in October. Almost eighteen, hardly a girl anymore, and yet she still had neither a husband nor any prospects for one. It would hardly be a problem if both their parents were still living – after all, Mary-Margaret was nineteen and still unwed, and their mother had been in her early twenties when she married father. She could’ve waited as many years as she wished, perhaps even sought out an arrangement via some distant relation or neighbor. Happiness might have been an option for all involved.

But that wasn’t the case. 

In truth, though no one would ever say it nor perhaps even think it, Isabelle existed as nothing more than a strain on her sisters’ livelihoods. She had no marketable skills, no attractive talents, and nothing to recommend her to prospective suitors. She supposed she was handsome, but a pretty face was hardly enough to warrant a man’s desire. She could not feign vacancy, no more than she could feign respect for a man who would ask it of her. 

And what decent man would ever want to marry an impoverished bookworm with too many opinions?

Mary-Margaret would indulge Scarlet’s discussion of a ball without hesitation, she knew. She also knew that she wouldn’t enjoy a moment of it due to her infatuation with David, if nothing else. But, as far as she knew, Mary-Margaret had no understanding of why she so disliked speaking of courtship. And, for better or worse, she intended to keep it that way. Her elder sister already had quite enough on her plate.

Isabelle lowered her gaze back to the reeds and swatted the thoughts away. They weren’t pleasant, they weren’t helping anyone, and they were likely to haunt her in the dregs of night, so it would do her sanity no good to dwell on them now. 

With a sigh, she plucked Graham’s knife up from where she’d laid it. She sent a prayer heavenward that she wouldn’t slice herself, and, bending forward, put the blade to a strip of hard grass. Much to her shock, the branch stripped away from the stalk quite easily, falling in her lap completely devoid of her skin or blood. Isabelle smiled and cut another, again relieved when it separated itself without issue. She’d been hoping for a distraction, hard work to keep her mind off her dismal failures, but succeeding at something was just as good. 

Isabelle continued with the knife until she had a good sized pile in her lap and could see the water before her without hindrance from the reeds. It was hot work to be sure, and she was thankful that she’d chosen a spot under the willow to work in, but she couldn’t suppress a feeling of pride that she’d managed to do it all on her own. Unorthodox, but she would still take it as a sign that today would get better. 

At least, until she tried to twist two of the strands together.

The weaving, much like gathering them, came easily once she remembered to brace the ends of the cattails with something to keep them from moving. But when it came time to tie the base together, nothing she did seemed to work. No matter how hard she tried, how tightly she pulled, or how insanely she bent her arms to hold them together, the reeds simply would not bend to her will. Frowning, she tried again, putting all her strength into it, but, again, the reed hardly moved. At least it didn’t break, though.

“Might I inquire what you’re doing, Miss Isabelle?”

Isabelle all but jumped, the reed in her hands snapping away only to swing back and swat her on the wrist. She shook her hand at the pain and spun around, intent on chastising whoever it was for sneaking up on her, but the words died in her throat at the sight of her intruder. It was Colonel Gold. 

“Colonel, you scared me half to death!” she panted. She was amused, though she couldn’t say why, when he had the decency to look sheepish. “What are you doing? I thought you’d be with Sir Victor.”

He hobbled an inch closer, a heavy walking staff in his hand for balance this time instead of his usual cane. Isabelle was surprised she hadn’t heard him sooner loud as the thing was against the leaves.

“I saw you on our way in, and was merely curious as to what you were doing,” he answered mildly. “If I’m disturbing you, though –”

“Oh no!” Isabelle interrupted. “You aren’t a bother at all. I’m just trying to turn this mess into a basket.”

She tried once more to wind the two stems together, but, as if to prove her point, they snapped away from each other almost instantly. Were she alone, and perhaps a bit bolder, she might’ve cursed. 

“If only I were Arachne,” she huffed under her breath. “She could weave better than even the Greek gods could. To be fair, she was rather arrogant for thinking she could outwit Athena, and they did turn her into a spider, but she still won, and I…”

Isabelle cut herself off at the sight of the colonel’s face. His eyes were wide, mouth entirely agape. As was expected, she thought, cringing – she’d just babbled several sentences worth of what was surely nonsense to him.

“I’m rambling again,” she blushed. “I apologize. Mary-Margaret always says I have a problem with getting carried away when I’m talking.”

Colonel Gold held up his hands in defense, almost tripping when he tried to come closer to her. “No, no! No, it’s not a problem at all. Although, if I had to choose, I’d much rather hear about Hades and Persephone.” 

She couldn’t quite keep her eyes from widening in surprise. “You’re versed in Greek mythology?”

He chuckled wryly. “Indeed. In defense of my preference, though, I prefer the Orphics’ version of the tale in which she’s merely kidnapped.”

Isabelle sat, stunned, before returning to her abysmal weaving, cheeks high with blush. She might have struck herself – of course he knew the stories of the Greeks. He was a colonel, a well-educated gentleman. If anything, he should be surprised that she knew anything about them. No doubt that was why he’d laughed at her. 

“I did not mean to insult you, sir,” she muttered, hands working distractedly at the still loose reed. “You probably think me quite foolish.”

Leaves rustled behind her, and, curious, Isabelle looked up. She was amazed to find that, rather than walking back to Sir Victor, the colonel had tried yet again to advance on her. She bit her lip, worried that he might trip on a loose root, as he seemed rather more concerned with gazing warily at her than the ground. 

“Not – not at all, Miss Isabelle,” he stammered. “What on earth gave you that idea?” 

The red of her cheeks deepened, but, this time, she allowed herself to smile, reassured by the earnestness in his voice. “I insinuated that you aren’t well-read.” 

Gold snorted. “You insinuated nothing of the sort, dearie. And, even if you had, it would hardly be unfounded – you’d be amazed to learn how few professed ‘gentlemen’ know anything outside of hunting and dog breeding. Hardly foolish of you, Miss Isabelle.” He smiled nervously, then glanced down to the mess in her arms. “Besides, if I were to insult you, I would do so in regards to your basket weaving, never your intelligence.”

As if agreeing with him, the twig between her fingers snapped in two. Isabelle laughed at it and shook her head, but before she could make any further motion to remedy her mistake, a set of gloved fingers hovered into view. She glanced over, unsurprised to find that the colonel’s eyes were resolutely avoiding her own. 

“If I may?”

Isabelle crinkled her eyes in confusion, but, after a moment’s hesitation, she did as he bade. He took the base from her with ease, cradling it in one arm as if it were a baby, and immediately set to work. She couldn’t follow his fingers they moved so fast, winding about each reed with thumb and forefinger until they stuck together without his help. It might’ve been less than a minute when he settled it back onto her lap. There were no knots to be seen, and, yet, none of the reeds came undone when she prodded it.

“How did you know to do that?” she gasped.

The man’s cheeks tinged with red, all the way from his scalp down to his neck. Odd, Isabelle thought, considering they were in the shadows and it was still quite cool.

“In the army, there aren’t seamstresses available to do the work for you,” he answered with a shrug. Isabelle was certain that he was trying to play nonchalant, but there was something far too nervous about his countenance for the effect to fully work. For some reason, that fact sent a shiver down her spine. “It’s hardly a feat of magic, Miss Isabelle.” 

She smirked up at him from under her hat. “Unlike the saffron bloom you gave me, then.”

Somehow, his blush only darkened. “Yes,” he answered gruffly, “quite unlike the saffron bloom. I suppose I’ll take my leave n-”

“Oh don’t go!” Isabelle squeaked, reaching immediately for his arm. The muscles – and she was surprised at how thick they were – quivered under her grip, but she didn’t allow her own cheeks to redden. After all, the colonel was doing a good enough job of that for the both of them.

Or was, at least. Now, he looked pale as a ghost, completely transfixed, it seemed, by the sight of her hand on his elbow. “Yes, Miss Isabelle?”

“What…” and she has to stop for a moment, because her breath has mysteriously caught in her throat, “what else did you learn in the army?” 

He smiled wryly at her and shook his head, removing her fingers from her arm with the gentlest of motions. “Nothing that would interest you, I’m sure.”

Her own smile dimmed a bit at his words. Rather than sounding patronizing, the colonel seemed rather more forlorn. As if he honestly didn’t believe he had anything of interest to her. 

She didn’t attempt to touch him again – she rather thought it unnerved him, human contact – but she did pat the ground beside her and scoot to give him more room.

“Try me,” she grinned. “I’d love to hear about your travels.”

He hesitated for a long moment, his staff and bum leg still pointed up the hill as if he might leave. Isabelle tried for the most comforting expression she could muster up and raised her tangled branches as a peace offering.

“You can start by showing me how to tie these ridiculous reeds together,” she added shyly. 

Colonel Gold chuckled, and Isabelle considered the battle won. 

“Well, I… I suppose I can do that at least,” he smiled, lowering himself slowly to the ground on his wounded leg. Isabelle wanted to ask him about that, about how he’d been hurt, but, for once, she kept her curiosity to herself. If he trusted her enough, he would let her know eventually. If she was to break through his shyness, she’d have to move in small steps. 

That in mind, she moved slowly, once he was settled against the tree roots, in passing him the pile of sticks in her lap. The colonel’s hands twitched, and though she tried valiantly not to touch them with her bare skin, there was no way to hand him the reeds without brushing against his knuckles. They both shivered, but before Isabelle could analyze why that was, the colonel had cleared his throat and moved back to his side of the tree. 

“A blind woman I met in India taught me how to do this,” he began, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. “If you’re interested, of course.” 

Isabelle smiled, and, though she didn’t scoot closer, she did lean a little more in his direction. “I love a good story.”

It was a slow thing coming, almost like a ripple across the man’s face, but there was no mistaking it as anything but a smile once it stopped. She hadn’t thought he could grin like this, with his eyes wide and bright and a corner of his teeth showing. And his eyes never left her, even when he bent forward to organize the reeds into piles. Isabelle’s pulse fluttered.

“As you wish, Miss Isabelle. Now, the first thing you do…”

————————————————————————————————————————————-

Mary-Margaret watched with a keen eye as Colonel Gold took her sister’s hands and guided them about the reeds. She had intended to walk down to the willow tree and help her sister herself, especially after the colonel showed up, but it seemed that she needn’t have been so concerned. There was nothing sinister about the picture, nothing that called for her immediate attention, but there was something almost desperate about the glint in the man’s eyes. Whatever it meant, Mary-Margaret could at least come to one conclusion about it – Isabelle was very naïve indeed if she hadn’t yet realized the way the colonel was gazing upon her.

“Well, I’ve never seen that man talk to anyone at such length,” Scarlet whispered, settling herself beside Mary-Margaret on the blanket with a plate of cheeses in one hand and a small knife in the other. “Not even Victor.”

Mary-Margaret smiled at that. She knew that Isabelle constantly doubted her ability to actually converse, but her ease with such a curt man obviously proved otherwise. She couldn’t say that she was anything but pleased at her sister’s skill.

“Quite,” Mrs. Lucas added. “I wonder what he’s trying to con the girl out of?”

She almost skidded off the blanket as quickly as she turned around. “Con?” she squeaked. “But- but surely he knows we have nothing to give him.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much, dear,” Scarlet murmured, though Mary-Margaret noticed she herself gazed upon the man as if he were a poisonous snake. “He’s an honest man, by all accounts, and he hardly wants for money. It’s just that he toys with words better than any solicitor in the country. Much as Miss Isabelle reads, she won’t have a problem seeing through him, I’m certain.”

Mary-Margaret’s eyes widened. “You make him sound horrid.”

Neither Scarlet nor her grandmother disagreed. She gulped. 

“Why would you allow him entry into your home if you detest him so?” she asked carefully, scooting closer so she wouldn’t have to look away from Isabelle to hear them. She may not have enough evidence to convict him yet, but she wasn’t taking her eyes off the colonel all the same.

Scarlet and Mrs. Lucas shared a look, one which Mary-Margaret knew couldn’t mean anything good. 

“He may not be a decent man,” Scarlet started slowly, “but I’ll give him that he’s a decent friend, to Victor if no one else. He’s one of very few men my husband honestly respects. Lord knows why, but it’s reason enough for me not to throw him out.” 

“Pitiful soul,” Mrs. Lucas muttered in agreement. “It’s a wonder Victor has any respect for him at all after that mess in the Indies.” 

“He was… somewhat dishonorably discharged from the military,” her granddaughter explained, before Mary-Margaret could even begin to ask. 

Her eyes returned to the sight of the man sitting by her sister on the willow roots. Isabelle was still smiling, listening to him enrapt as he spoke to her. Surely her sister couldn’t be so foolish as to befriend such an awful man. Her gaze narrowed in confusion.

“But… Sir Victor said at dinner that he was retired,” she argued. 

Scarlet shook her head no. “That’s merely my husband’s way of being polite. Most people don’t actually know that he was let go, so to speak. Even I don’t know the whole story.” She bit her lip, and leaned forward. “But I do know the gist of it.” 

Both grandmother and daughter looked down to the edge of the water, satisfying themselves that the colonel couldn’t hear them before going on.

“There was a battle, in the Indies,” Scarlet started quietly. “The natives turned on them and attacked them in the night. Killed all of Colonel Gold’s troop. Well, accepting him, of course.” 

Mary-Margaret hardly missed the way her landlady sneered at that. 

“From what I understand, he only survived because he ran while his friends died all around him. He was even shot in the foot, but still he ran. No one could prove that that’s what happened, obviously, so no one could testify against him to King George, but it should be pretty clear considering that he came back with a limp where before he had none and all of his comrades were dead.”

Mrs. Lucas shot the man a look of disdain. “Technically, the courts couldn’t officially press for his discharge, so they ‘suggested’ he retire instead,” she grumbled. “Had it not been for my grandson-in-law, I’m certain he’d have gone mad and done himself a harm. No one else would stand by him here.”

“Perhaps we should leave it at that,” Mary-Margaret interrupted. Helpful as it was to hear about this man whom her sister insisted on spending time with, the conversation was quickly devolving from worried necessity to petty gossip. And if there was one thing she couldn’t abide, gossip was it. “He’s a confirmed old bachelor, Scarlet, I’m sure I’ve nothing to worry about from him.”

“‘Confirmed old bachelor’?” Scarlet snorted. “The main reason I refuse to like that man is his dalliances with women! Why, one of them died of syphilis and a broken heart after he left her in the poorhouse.”

Her grandmother nodded, even as she passed around the tea she’d been pouring for them. “At least he never sired no children,” she mumbled. “Poor dears would have all my pity.”

Mary-Margaret sat stunned. She was sure she looked like a fish in her confusion, mouth opening and closing as she tried to work out what – if anything – she could possibly say to that. She’d thought the colonel a decent man. Cold, a bit strange, but decent. Leaving a whole troop – a troop which, as colonel, it was his duty to protect – to the slaughter, though, and then sending a sickly woman into poverty… there was nothing she could think of which could excuse any of that. Surely they were mistaken. Surely, surely, this wasn’t the sort of man who had set eyes on her little sister. 

Before she could even begin to respond, though, Sir Victor appeared, sitting down between his wife and grandmother-in-law and effectively taking the focus away from Colonel Gold. 

“I apologize for being late, Scarlet,” he said, leaning forward to take a bit of cheese from the basket. “I assure you I was right behind Gold, but I was interrupted by one of our messengers. Seems that one of our letters wasn’t sent with the morning mail.” 

The three women watched curiously as he dug about in his coat, smiling when he finally found the thing and pulled it out. The parchment was heavy, much too fancy for just a billing statement or general message, and was furthermore bound by a white ribbon. 

“Oooh, is it news about the ball?” Scarlet asked excitedly. 

Her husband laughed and, indulging her, kissed her cheek before shaking his head. “No, actually,” he answered. “It’s a letter, for Miss Blanchard.”

Mary-Margaret’s mouth, already wide for want of coming up with more questions, fell open even further. 

“Me?” she all but whispered. 

Sir Victor nodded and placed it in her hand. “Our messenger said it was quite urgent, in fact.”

She gulped, but, seeing no way to refuse and remain polite, she took the paper from his hand and unwound the ribbon. She felt every eye on her as she dropped her own to read.

 

To Miss Blanchard, Miss Isabelle, and Sir Emma,

 

I am sorry to confirm that visiting you in your new lodgings will not be a possibility for me, at least not for some time. At risk of making this missive brief, I will end that the memory of your kindness will stay with me always, and I sincerely wish that you have found home in Storybrooke Cottage. 

 

My sincerest regards,

David Nolan

 

“Well, what is it?” Scarlet chirped, trying to lean around Mary-Margaret’s hands so that might better see the address. “Is this from that mysterious suitor Miss Emma’s being trying to tell us about?”

Mary-Margaret lifted her eyes from the paper, eyes wide and mouth agape.

“I… it’s… no. No, it isn’t.” The lie cut her deeply, but not as deeply as David’s message. She’d known that he wouldn’t been coming, had known since the day they left. But to have him take away her pretend hope, the idea that maybe he would surprise her and come back… 

She stood to her feet, careful not to tip over her tea or the plate Scarlet had laid in front of her. 

“It’s from Regina,” she murmured, not sparing them another glance as she headed back to the cottage. “I must write her a reply immediately, I’m afraid. I do hope you don’t think me rude.”

“Oh nonsense!” Mrs. Lucas answered, waving her off. 

The older woman said more, she knew, but, while she nodded at her, she couldn’t for the life of her figure out what was being said. 

David wasn’t coming. And, for the moment, that was all that she could bring herself to care about. 

————————————————————————————————————————————-

Isabelle smiled at her basket and set it on the kitchen table, happy when it sat still and neither crumpled over nor fell apart.

“Well, that’s seven baskets, Mary-Margaret,” she hummed. “I think I’ve gotten the hang of this. Perhaps we might even sell a few this weekend.”

Her sister didn’t answer her. Isabelle sighed, and went back to straightening up the kitchen.

When she’d come in the previous evening, she’d been ecstatic. Not only had she made seven baskets of her own – the last three without any help from Colonel Gold, in fact – but she’d rambled on bout Shakespeare and Greek mythology without once being chastised for her opinions. Indeed, the colonel seemed to appreciate her understanding of the stories, even – and perhaps especially – when their opinions differed. They indulged in several debates about history and literature, once he opened up and revealed to her his own ideas on the matter, and he never once told her to be quiet or looked at her like an insolent girl when she disagreed with him. She even managed to convince him that Romeo and Juliet was a tale of caution, not romance.

For the first time ever, she felt that she had a friend. 

But all it took was seeing her elder sister’s face to know that she was alone in her happiness. 

She’d worried, at first, that Regina had sent her something, which was what Scarlet and Mrs. Lucas told her before they left with Sir Victor and the colonel. But the more she thought of it, the less it added up. She wouldn’t put it past their half-sister to rub their misfortune in their faces, of course, but it wasn’t Regina’s style to do so in a letter. No, if she’d wanted to cause trouble, she’d have visited them in person. 

It only made sense, then, that the letter was from David. And, sure enough, when Mary-Margaret finally decided to show it to her and Emma, it was David’s seal that marked the edge. 

If she didn’t believe with all her heart that he was in love with Mary-Margaret, whatever his absence might suggest to the contrary, she would ask for Sir Victor’s musket and hunt him down herself. 

“Mary-Margaret, Isabelle!”

“Yes, Emma?” Mary-Margaret called out, leaning out the window to watch their little sister race down the path.

“We have another letter!”

Both Isabelle and Mary-Margaret snapped to attention, a shiver running down both their spines. They shared a look as Emma ran in, darting anxious looks at Graham as he followed behind, a heavy piece of parchment in hand.

Isabelle gulped – she’d grown to fear that sight. 

“It’s addressed to all three of you, Misses Blanchard,” Graham said, holding the paper high for one of them to take.

Isabelle had never seen Mary-Margaret move so fast, nor open a letter with such ferocity. But the disappointment in her eyes when she opened the paper and scanned the bottom line– a look which Isabelle had recently begun to attribute to Mr. Nolan – was all too familiar.

“What is it?” Emma piped up. “Is it another letter from David?”

“Emma,” Isabelle started, trying to guide her little sister away from the topic lest it cause Mary-Margaret more pain. Before she could so much as stand, though, Mary-Margaret had waved her down and reapplied her cheery smile.

“No,” she answered. “It’s from Colonel Gold.”

Isabelle’s pulse quickened, though she didn’t understand for the life of her why. “What does it say?”

“It seems that he’d like to have us over dinner this evening. All of us, Graham included.” Her eyes narrowed on her curiously. “You must really have impressed him yesterday afternoon, Isabelle.”

Something about her elder sister’s tone put her on edge, almost as if she were accusing her for doing something untoward. As she’d done nothing wrong, though, she brushed it aside and attributed the strange behavior to her sadness about David. She was much more excited about seeing Colonel Gold again, anyway. 

“Well, I’m afraid I’ll have to decline,” Mary-Margaret sighed. 

Isabelle looked up at her sharply. “But why?”

It didn’t escape her notice that Mary-Margaret wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I’ve so much cleaning to do today, Isabelle. You’ve done the kitchen and dining room for me, which I greatly appreciate, but I still have to wipe down the walls, and sweep the floors. It’ll take me the rest of the evening.”

Isabelle looked at Graham and Emma, and saw the same compassion she felt towards Mary-Margaret reflected in their eyes. It was a weak excuse, and all three of them knew it. Even if the cottage wasn’t already clean – and it was, considering that they’d been tidying up all day – it would hardly take more than half an hour to finish the job. Why she insisted on pretending that David’s message hadn’t upset her was beyond all of them, it seemed.

Graham nodded and set his bag down at the floor. “I shall stay with you, then, Miss Mary-Margaret,” he said gruffly. 

“Me, too,” Emma piped up. “I wouldn’t want to go visit him anyway.” 

Isabelle glanced at them, lingering a few moments longer on Mary-Margaret. It was very unlike her sister to turn down an invitation, no matter how much she may have wanted to. She’d always considered such actions rude. Her heart went out to her – it seemed that David’s letter had hurt her even worse than they’d thought.

It also seemed that she’d be going alone. 

“Well, I suppose I’ll head on out, then.”

Mary-Margaret almost tripped over a corner of the rug. “What?” 

Isabelle reached behind Graham for her coat and nodded in the general direction of Gold’s manor. 

“You’re not coming with me, so it makes no sense for me to wait about,” she explained. “Besides, it would be quite rude to let him think all of us are coming and then have only me show up. This way, he’ll have time to prepare a proper supper instead of a full feast.”

“And how to you expect to get there?”

She pushed back her annoyance, knowing that her elder sister was merely being her mothering self, and took her shawl. “I have legs, haven’t I? It’s only a mile or two from here, according to Sir Victor. And I can ask the colonel or one of his servants to drive me back if it becomes too dark. Not that I intend to stay that long, of course.”

“But – but wouldn’t you at least like to call for a carriage?” Mary-Margaret stammered. “By the time supper’s over, it’ll be dark, and it won’t do to have you walk so far at night. I’m sure that Scarlet and Sir Victor wouldn’t mind loaning you theirs.”

Isabelle could feel herself glaring, could feel the irritation pulsing in her veins, but she couldn’t rightly figure out why. Her elder sister was just being her usual motherly self; if she worried over Isabelle being alone with a strange bachelor, it was only to be expected. None of that calmed her growing annoyance, though.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d assume you didn’t want me to go at all,” she muttered. 

Mary-Margaret said nothing. Satisfied, she slipped her feet into her shoes, and headed again for the door. 

Emma jumped to her feet. “I’ll go with you.”

"But you just said you didn’t want to," Isabelle laughed. "I’ll be quite fine on my own if you wish to stay."

"I’m coming anyway. I don’t trust you to be alone with him."

"Emma!"

Her little sister crossed her arms and raised her chin challengingly. Isabelle found herself waiting for something, but didn’t rightly know what it was until she noticed that Mary-Margaret hadn’t done anything to chastise Emma as she was wont to do. In fact, she seemed to be staring at them with grim approval.

"Mary-Margaret?"

Her elder sister dropped her chin and looked away. “You cannot deny, Isabelle, that it would at the very least be improprietous for you to be with him on your own.”

"Improprietous?" she asked, bewildered. "Mary-Margaret, I was alone with him all yesterday and you had no such complaints."

"Because I was watching you," she argued. "As were Sir Victor and his family. We hardly left you alone."

“Why would you need to watch me with him in the first place! You had no problem with me speaking to him before tonight.”

“I have my reasons, Isabelle.”

“And they are…?”

Mary-Margaret bit her lip, and looked at her significantly. “I’d rather not say.”

Isabelle clicked her tongue, but Mary-Margaret put forth no more information. She stared at her just as always, like she was ignorant and naïve and needed to be told in great detail how to dress herself, much less who to befriend. 

She glared at both her sisters, then grabbed Emma by the hand.

"Fine," she huffed, cheeks reddening at how childish she knew she sounded. "We’ll be back by nightfall."

Mary-Margaret opened her mouth to say something, but Isabelle had already yanked them out the door.

For once, Isabelle was the faster of the two, jerking Emma along the path and into the fields across the road from their cottage. She knew that Mary-Margaret was only stressed, that she was likely acting the mother just because that was all she knew how to do, but it didn’t make her elder sister’s accusations sting any less. Ever since they’d left Snow Park, it seemed that nothing she did was right. And without a word from David to cheer her up, it seemed unlikely that it would end anytime soon.

Beside her, Emma hastened to keep the pace, and, guiltily, Isabelle slowed to a walk. At least her motivations hadn’t changed. Emma trusted no one outside of their family – there was nothing out of the ordinary there.

She sighed, releasing all the irritation she could in her breath, and, smiling, attempted to break the awkward silence.

“I can’t believe we’re having supper with the colonel,” she tried. “It was very kind of him to invite us.”

Emma shrugged, but still said nothing. Isabelle started again.

“Sir Victor said that his manor is even bigger than theirs. I can’t believe that, but that’s what he said. I wonder what it looks like.” 

Emma huffed. “It’s probably old and dark and creepy like him.” 

Isabelle reached down and flicked her sister on the shoulder. 

“I don’t know why you insist on being so harsh about him,” she berated. “You and Mary-Margaret. He’s been nothing but kind to us.” 

“Kind to you, you mean,” Emma countered, shaking Isabelle’s hand off her arm. 

“That’s hardly fair, either. He tried to give you a flower. And he spoke to Mary-Margaret a good while the first night we met him.”

“And hasn’t spoken to either of us since.” 

Isabelle bit her tongue, having nothing to say to that. After all, it was the truth.

Emma sped up a bit and stared at her as they walked. “She had a point, Isabelle,” she mumbled. “I mean, it is rather odd for Colonel Gold to invite us over after only a week of our being here. Mrs. Lucas says he barely even invites over Sir Victor.”

She shrugged herself. “Perhaps he’s just trying to be a good neighbor.”

Her sister glared at her, and shook her head as if Isabelle, not she herself, was the younger sister who needed to be looked after.

She wished she could argue with that treatment, but, unfortunately, she had no basis for doing so.

Emma and Mary-Margaret both had a point in that the colonel seemed to enjoy her company more than theirs. It made no sense to her, as Mary-Margaret was far more grown up and, thus, more likely to have things in common with him, and Emma, while much younger, was far more interesting. But, then, him having anything to do with any of them seemed a stretch, quiet and taciturn as he acted. If were to be interested in any of them, she surely would have pegged Graham, as he was the only man in the house. 

But maybe, maybe, she was lucky. Maybe, he saw her as a friend just as much as she was beginning to think of him as one. 

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden sensation of wetness along her arms. She looked up, confused, to see that there were indeed droplets all over her skin. She smiled – it had been ages since she’d last walked in the rain.

“Isabelle, we’re getting soaked,” Emma shivered. Isabelle almost felt bad for the irate expression on her little sister’s face. “We should’ve asked for Scarlet’s carriage.”

Isabelle lifted her face only to be smacked by a torrent of raindrops. She laughed and shook them off. 

“Come on, Emma,” she grinned. “The rain is quite pleasant.” 

Emma scoffed at her. “Quite. I always enjoy being blinded by shards of water and drowning in knee-deep mud.” 

“Now you’re just exaggerating. The rain is –”

Whatever she’d meant to say about it caught in her throat, turning into a scream as she slid on a wet stone in her path. 

Without warning, she was thrust down the hill, sent rolling head over feet along the soaked grass. She heard Emma’s footsteps, heard her calling her name, but the rest was only vague noise in her ears. 

It felt an eternity before she finally came to a stop at the bottom, her knees bruised and the hem of her dress ripped to shreds.

“Isabelle!” Emma panted, racing down the hillside behind her. “Isabelle, are you alright?” 

She slowly rose to her knees, taking inventory of her arms, knees, and hands. There would be bruises come morning she was sure, but, for the most part, she seemed to be fine.

“I believe so.” 

Emma checked her over for herself all the same, and, when she found nothing out of the ordinary, either, snorted.

“Do you still find the rain pleasant now, Isabelle?” Emma smirked, folding her arms over her chest.

Isabelle stuck out her tongue at her. “Haha,” she grumbled. “Just help me up, if you would.”

Her sister still smirked, but she did offer her hands so that Isabelle could get to her feet. She was halfway up, though, her left foot balanced underneath her, when the ground slipped out from beneath her yet again. And this time, it was accompanied by an awful twinge in her ankle. She hissed, and gripped at her foot lest she fall again.

Emma’s eyes filled with worry. “Isabelle, you can’t stand.” 

“I figured as much,” she groaned. “You were right – we should’ve taken a carriage.” 

Isabelle massaged her ankle, but even that soothing of a touch caused her pain. She winced, and looked at her younger sister.

“Go ahead to Colonel Gold’s house and ask him to send someone,” she hissed. “It should only be a mile ahead from this point.”

Emma’s eyes went wide. “I’m not leaving you alone! Here, just take my arm.” 

She knew it wouldn’t work, but she indulged her all the same, hefting herself up on her good foot and putting all her weight on her sister. Just as she expected, though, the moment she tried to so much as slide her foot against the grass, both of them toppled to the ground. She moaned and waved Emma off, hoping her sister knew she was only hurt, not angry with her.

“I could try to hop, but I doubt that’ll work as wet as this ground is. You’ll have to ask Colonel Gold. He’s closer than the cottage.”

Emma hesitated, chewing her lip as if that were the very last thing she wanted to do. Isabelle smiled at her – hoping it looked more like a smile than a grimace – and nodded forward. “Go on,” she repeated, holding onto her ankle as if it might fall off. “I’ll be fine for a few moments.”

Her sister glanced at her yet again, obviously trying to come up with a better solution. But it was just as obvious that there was none to be found. With a nod, she patted Isabelle on the arm, and raced toward the hills, disappearing from sight into the torrential rain. Isabelle shivered, holding her dripping shawl close, and, for the first time in her life, cursed the water falling from the sky. 

“Aaah!”

Isabelle jerked herself from the ground, searching for whatever had made her sister scream. She saw nothing, everything before her hidden in the gray fog of rain. A streak of yellow hair raced into view, much too high from the ground to be her sister’s, but before she could begin to fear a banshee or some other mythical beast, a great, dark horse galloped before her feet. Isabelle opened her mouth to yell, scooting herself backwards as quickly as he could, but she was halted by a thick arm hefting her into the air.

She growled and beat against the chest of her captor. “Let me go!” she shouted, attempting to kick free with her free leg.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, miss.”

Isabelle stopped at the sound of a man’s voice. It wasn’t familiar, nor entirely comforting, but it wasn’t the voice of a demon, either.

“Why not?’ she asked carefully.

The man adjusted her in his arms. “I saw that you were injured, and it’s my gentlemanly duty to aid you.”

“I only twisted my ankle,” Isabelle countered, still trying to wriggle from his grip. “It’s hardly as severe as all that.”

“Nonsense,” the man huffed, settling her easily before him on the seat. She could feel Emma behind him, and knew that her sister must be terrified, even if she wouldn’t show it – far as she knew, her baby sister had never before ridden a horse. “You are obviously in a great deal of pain. Far be it from me to deny a damsel in distress.”

He took his reins in hand, and, in this light, she could properly see his face. He was handsome, to be sure, likely no older than nine and twenty years, and windswept in a way that she associated with the sea. His hair was dark, darker even than the silk of his horse, and his jawline was covered in like-colored stubble. He was strong, and sleek.

And his hand was also much too close to her knee for her comfort.

“Now, which way is your home, miss?”

She pointed the direction they’d come from. “Storybrooke cottage. But you don’t –”

Her words turned into a squeak as the man, heedless of her complaints, snapped his horse’s reins.

“Hyah!”

The horse lurched, rearing up on its hind legs, and Isabelle turned to hold onto Emma, glaring at their rider as she did. It was a wonder her little sister hadn’t fallen off. 

“Best hold on tight, love,” he muttered. “Oh, and you may call me Killian Jones.”

Isabelle barely had time to head his instructions, gripping Emma – rather than him – as tightly as she could, before he kicked the horse in the ribs and sent it racing down the field. Her vision blurred, her head dizzy with the speed of the horse and the difficulty of keeping Emma from being bucked off. And with Mr. Jones’s cloak in her face, and the rain falling thickly all around them, whatever she’d hoped to see faded into darkness. 

She closed her eyes to keep from being sick, and prayed that the colonel wouldn’t be too put out with her.


	7. Chapter 7

Wholly Unspoilt (7/?)  
Rating: PG

Author’s Note: Sorry, sorry, sorry for the long wait, my lovelies. I would promise it won’t happen again, but, knowing me, I’d likely break it :S However, I will promise to pay more attention to this fic and try to spend more time working on it. It’s one of my favorites, so letting it die is one of the last things I want from it. Alright, well, enough of my whining - you’ve waited long enough. On with the reading!

 

Mary-Margaret nervously tapped her fingers against the table top. She should never have given Emma and Isabelle leave to visit Colonel Gold, not when it was so late an hour and especially not when she’d been explicitly told of his sordid dealings. Doing otherwise had been utter foolishness.

Her eyes flickered to the grandfather clock in the corner, then back to the window pointed at the road. The sun hadn’t yet set, shining dully on the forest path outside, but the clouds on the horizon were dark enough to give her pause. If it rained whilst they were with the colonel and he chose to manipulate them into staying instead of lending a carriage, she didn’t think she would be able to forgive herself.

She sighed and laid her head upon her arms. A hand rested calmly beside her, patting the wood as if that might offer her comfort.

Mary-Margaret allowed herself a slight, wan smile, even if she didn’t quite lift her head. 

“Had you any luck with the hunting?” she asked softly. 

She felt, more than she saw, Graham shrug overhead. 

“I found a brace of rabbits. Not much, but I can make it last us through the week.”

Her breath released itself in a dull whoosh. Well, as he said, it was something. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about her sisters starving. 

Of course, starvation would hardly be an issue if they didn’t return home from the colonel’s. 

The chair beside her creaked. Mary-Margaret turned her head just enough to see that Graham had taken up residence in it, his hand still placed comfortingly beside hers.

“They will be fine, Miss Blanchard,” he assured her, knowing her concerns even without her having to voice them. “Miss Isabelle is a smart girl, you know that. And even if she weren’t, Miss Emma would hardly let her come to any harm. You never need to worry about either of them fending for themselves or each other.”

The corner of her mouth tilted up, if only for a moment. She finally raised herself up, though, just enough that she could take his hand in her own. He bristled, as always, but, also just as always, he squeezed her reassuringly in return. 

“Thank you, Graham. I know I needn’t worry, I do.” She turned her face so that she was once again facing the wall. “Not about them, at least.” 

In her peripheral, she could see Graham’s brow furrow. “What do you mean?”

For a moment, she looked at him baldly, the words, her concern about Colonel Gold’s past, ready to spill from her lips. But before she could say anything, before she could give in to her desire to tell someone, she thought better of it and bit the words back. 

“I… nothing,” she muttered. “Nothing.”

His responding hum would’ve seemed noncommittal if not for the arch stare he gave her. He didn’t believe her, she could tell. Not that she’d truly expected him to – she knew she was a terrible liar. But he didn’t press her, a fact she was most thankful for, and she pretended that it was only exhaustion that made her bury her face in the crook of her arm once more.

Much as she wanted to share the burden of this new knowledge, she didn’t quite know that she could tell anyone else, not even Graham or her sisters. Truth be told, she didn’t even know if she should tell. Whether Lady Scarlet was the one who’d divulged the tale or not, it was still Colonel Gold’s private affair, and it would be the height of indecency to spread the gossip further. This sense of propriety wasn’t the only thing that held her back, though. Tarnishing the colonel’s reputation would warrant a heavy cost, one that she, more than most, was very familiar with. After all, the last time she’d told another’s secret out of turn, her best friend, her elder sister, had become her worse enemy. And while the colonel had no relationship to any of them thus far, she wasn’t willing to risk another disaster such as the one before. 

She sighed, shaking her head at herself. No, that was not a risk she was willing to take. It would be best to keep the information to herself. Keep it to herself, until it was absolutely necessary to divulge. 

She only hoped she would be a good judge of when that moment was. 

Graham’s chair screeched, startling her from her thoughts, and she turned just in time to see him spring to his feet. Her eyes widened.

“Graham?”

He didn’t face her, his eyes firmly affixed on the window. “Is Lady Scarlet meant to call on you tonight?”

She arched her eyebrow. “No. No one’s meant to call that I know of. Why do you ask?”

He nodded grimly at the window. “There is a dark horse on the road.” 

His fingers tapped his pocket, no doubt feeling for the knife he kept there, as he moved toward the glass. Mary-Margaret lifted her head after him, craning her neck to get a better look. Graham was right – a large, black horse was galloping along the path towards them. And she did not recognize the rider.

SLAM!

Mary-Margaret and Graham both jumped, spinning from the window to face the front door instead. She felt the whip as his knife was drawn, and she clenched her own hands at her sides as if she might be of any use. But when the kitchen door swung open, it wasn’t an intruder who marched in – it was her baby sister.

“Emma!” she called, echoing Graham’s sigh of relief as she hurried towards her. “What happened, are you alright?” 

Emma allowed her to fret and hug for only a moment, then pushed herself away and pulled them towards the den. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she assured, though her face was just as tense as ever she’d seen it. “It’s Isabelle.”

Mary-Margaret’s heart stopped. “Isabelle? What… what happened? Is she hurt?”

Emma shook her head, but, before she could answer, the front door banged open yet again, interrupting them. The both of them turned immediately to face it, Graham right behind them, just in time to see a dark, leather cloaked-man march into the room, her other sister cradled lengthwise in his arms. 

Her mouth fell open in shock, her brain attempting to formulate a proper response to what was going on. Before she could even begin to say anything, though, the strange man winked and pushed passed her on his way to the settee. 

“Killian Jones,” he introduced, his voice steady in spite of Isabelle’s weight and the confusion surrounding him. “Sorry to make your acquaintance at such an ill time. I assure you, I’m quite charming under normal circumstances.”

Isabelle’s cheeks flushed, and only turned brighter when he sat her down and knelt beside her. Curious and confused beyond explanation, and not knowing what else to do, Mary-Margaret followed blindly after, Emma and Graham hot on her heels. 

“Graham,” she pleaded, “might you ask for Sir Victor’s carriage?”

He cocked his head at her. “Whatever for?”

“I would like you to tell the Colonel what happened. I wouldn’t want him to be waiting up for us.”

Jones’s eyebrows rose. “Sir Victor? Colonel? I did not realize I had saved the acquaintance of such highly esteemed persons.”

Isabelle ignored him, though her cheeks tinged a slightly deeper pink. “Please?”

Graham turned to face her, obviously asking her permission first. Isabelle continued to stare at them, though, so, while Mary-Margaret thought better of it, she was only left the option to agree. 

With a sigh, she put her arm on his shoulder and nodded for him to go on his way. He smiled at her, a slight thing that only she and her sisters would even recognize as a smile, and immediately went on his way. She continued to stare after him until she felt the force of someone else’s eyes on her. She was unsurprised, but a little concerned, to find that she was right about it being Mr. Jones. 

“Sir Victor, hmm?” he asked. “I can’t say I recognize the name. Might you know what he was knighted for?”

He looked on for another moment, but, when it became clear that she was not going to honor his comment, he huffed and returned to his task.

Careful as she would have been herself, Jones peeled off Isabelle’s shoes and deposited them on the floor. The reason for his care and Emma’s worry was immediately apparent – one of her feet, from heel to ankle, was bruised and swollen to twice its size.

Her hand flew to her mouth.

“What happened?” she gasped. “Are you alright?” 

Isabelle opened her mouth, but Mr. Jones was the one who answered. 

“She had a bit of a fall. If I hadn’t seen her from my horse, I fear she would have been quite stuck. And, as to whether or not she’s alright, I am about to ascertain that for myself.” He looked away so that he was once more facing Isabelle. “If I may?”

Her sister deliberated. An almost wary look had taken over her eyes, and, though her mouth was still parted, she did not attempt to say anything. It was a familiar expression, but Mary-Margaret could not place where she’d seen it before. 

Eventually, though, Isabelle nodded her head, her voice still surprisingly nonexistent. That seemed all the permission Jones needed, though, for, the next moment, he had pulled Isabelle’s hem over her ankle. Mary-Margaret winced – the skin surrounding it had turned a nasty blueish color, and the bone itself seemed to have swollen. She opened her mouth, wanting to ask if Isabelle would like a cold cloth to put overtop it, but the words died rather quickly as she watched Jones continue to move Isabelle’s skirt. It was nearly to her little sister’s knee before he stopped. 

He leant forward, enough that his whiskered jaw almost touched her shin, and grinned at her. “Perfect condition,” he whispered. “Except for the ankle, of course. Nothing that a little rest won’t fix, though.”

Isabelle’s entire body – not just her cheeks – flamed red. Mary-Margaret waited for her to slap the man for his impropriety, or at least berate him for taking such a liberty. But although Isabelle’s mouth still hung open, she said not a thing. The only reaction she could see in her was a stillness in her breath and a further reddening of her cheeks. 

Mary-Margaret felt her eyes widen. The flush of her skin, her heavy breath – all were incredibly unlike her sister, especially under such circumstances. But, all the same, they were also all were symptoms she recognized quite well. She should have seen it the moment he carried her through the door: it seemed her little sister was besotted. 

Jones allowed himself a final look, then lowered Isabelle’s skirt and stood to his feet.

“Well, that’s an ease on my mind at least,” he murmured. “I should like to stay longer, but, as it is, I have business in town to attend.” He turned towards her once more. “If I may visit our patient tomorrow, though?”

She looked at Isabelle, silently asking if the invitation was acceptable. Her sister’s stare was firmly affixed on Mr. Jones, though, her mouth and eyes both agog. 

That was all the answer she really needed.

Mary-Margaret cleared her throat and nodded. “You may.”

Jones smiled, eyes dark with glee. 

“I shall look forward to it, then. My lady, Miss Blanchard, Miss Emma.”

He nodded to each of them in turn, granting Isabelle and Emma both an additional sly smirk, and then he was out the door. 

Mary-Margaret waited a full minute, long enough for the sound of the horse’s galloping hooves to die away, before she turned back to her sisters. Emma, much like she herself, looked vaguely stunned, eyebrows arched and lips down-turned. Isabelle, on the other hand, looked entirely blank, deaf and dumb to the world around her.

“Isabelle?” she asked carefully. Her sister didn’t answer. She glanced again at Emma, but she seemed just as much at a loss. 

She took a deep breath, but, before she could try again, Isabelle shook herself from her stupor and rolled onto her side.  
“I… I’m rather tired,” she said softly. “Might you leave me to sleep in here for the night?”

Beside her, Emma arched her brows. “You want to sleep out here?”

Isabelle nodded, closing her eyes just the tiniest bit.

“Yes. I don’t quite feel like going upstairs, Emma.” Her smile turned grim, her eyes all but glaring. “After all, as our guest said, I should be resting.”

She huffed, as if annoyed, and cuddled deeper into the couch. Mary-Margaret thought it a poor act on her part to pretend to be annoyed by Mr. Jones now. Emma seemed to think the same, if her arch stare was anything to go by, but, with a shrug, she left the room and hopped up the stairs by herself. 

Alone with her other sister, Mary-Margaret bit the inside of her cheek and stepped a little closer. It was unlike her sister, exceptionally unlike her, to hide her emotions, just as it was strange for her to keep quiet during such an odd occurrence. She thought hard on it, but no explanation made itself apparent – only Isabelle, it seemed, had the answer for why her attraction to Mr. Jones left her silent. 

Mary-Margaret didn’t give voice to any of those concerns, though. Instead, she sat on the arm of the settee and leaned over to brush back her sister’s hair. 

“Are you quite sure you don’t want us to take you to your room?”

Isabelle did not answer – she was already asleep. 

—————————————————————————————————————

For the fifth time in as many minutes, Gold’s eyes drifted to the pocket watch beside his plate. The hands hadn’t gone still, nor had they miraculously wound back – just as it had been the last time he’d looked, it was still well past 5:30.

He sighed, shutting the face of the thing and leaning back heavily in his chair. He hadn’t been expecting anything different, not from the watch or the reason he kept looking at it. Not really. It didn’t make the disappointment any easier to bear, though.

Disappointment. He laughed bitterly and chucked his watch across the table, scattering the food he’d meticulously planned for them to eat. Disappointment was a foolish thing to feel. He should have known that she would not come. Should have known that, given the choice between staying at home and venturing out to dine with him of all people, she would much prefer to stay. What young woman wouldn’t? He was an old, embittered, and useless man, and, poor as the Blanchards were, not even his money would be enough to make Miss Isabelle pretend otherwise. She was just like all the rest – too smart to engage him in any sort of interaction.

He exhaled heavily enough to extinguish the candles. No, no she wasn’t a thing like anyone else. She was intelligent, and patient, and, if the fact that she willingly sought him out for conversation was anything to go by, exceptionally kind. She was brave, to take on her family’s struggles as she did without complaint or issue. And a person so kind, so brave, would never take so cowardly an action as to stand someone up without warning, even if the someone in question were him. 

She must’ve had a reason.

Knock, knock!

Gold jumped to his feet, scattering his chair to the side and nearly stumbling over his own leg in his haste. She’d come. She’d actually come.

The door sounded again, and, not bothering to right himself, he hobbled off towards it. For not the first time, he was glad he sent his servants away every night – no one would be there to open the door for Miss Isabelle before him.

He slowed his pace just before he reached the hall, attempting to look somewhat orderly and put together. His ankle felt bruised, twisted, he was sure, by his excitement in getting up, and he shook his head roughly at himself in embarrassment. He was old enough to be the girl’s father – he shouldn’t make his prospects even worse by acting the fool. 

With a final tug on his cravat, he hooked his cane behind his leg and turned the handle.

“Good evening. I hope the journey wasn’t too… Mister Hunter?”

The Blanchards’ servant, standing alone on his doorstep, gave him a curt nod. He gave the path behind the man a cursory glance, and, while there was a carriage behind him, there was no one else inside it. His brow furrowed. 

“Where are the Misses Blanchard?” he asked harshly.

Graham lowered his head. “At home, sir. Miss Isabelle sent me to tell you that she won’t be able to come.”

Gold straightened his jaw. It was that, or allow his face to fall and reveal his despondency. He should’ve known. Should’ve known better than to get his hopes up. 

His fingers tightened around the head of his cane. “I see,” he groused. “Well, I am overjoyed that she had the politesse to have you inform me. Be sure to return the favor and wish them a happy evening from me.” 

The other man stepped forward, his eyes set in a strange glare.

“I’m afraid that will be a vain wish, colonel.”

His voice, to Gold’s surprise, was colored more with worry than anger, but still he gripped his cane tight about the middle, ready to swing it if it came to blows.

“Really? Is there any reason they shouldn’t be enjoying their night alone?”

Graham nodded. “Yes. The reason Miss Isabelle could not attend supper with you is that she’s had an accident.”

He opened his mouth, cane raised to strike, before the meaning of the words became clear. The handle fell roughly into his palm, slicing skin as it collided with his thumb. His legs, both the bum and unhindered one, shook. Accident…

“She… what?” His tongue darted out to touch his lips. Not again. God would not be so cruel as to let this happen again. “What accident?”

The man jerked his head grimly toward the hills behind him. “Happened just an hour ago. She and Miss Emma were headed this way on foot, and she fell and twisted her ankle.”

The air left his lungs as if he’d been hit. So it wasn’t Amelia’s fate she was suffering, then – it was his own.

His jaw felt locked in place when he tried to speak. “Is she alright?”

Graham sighed. “I didn’t have a chance to see before she had me come. She couldn’t walk on her own though. I believe she’s resting now, but she should… Colonel Gold?”

Gold waved him off, tottering past him as quickly as his limp would allow. “Is she at the cottage or Sir Victor’s?”

“The cottage.” The crunching of footsteps followed him down the trail. “If you mean to go there, I can take you right now.”

“No, you can and will stay right here until I return.”

Graham skidded to a halt behind him. “What?” 

“I said you are to stay here,” he repeated tersely.

He did not have to turn to feel his indignation, so he didn’t bother to do so. It was going to be a struggle as it as to climb onto the driver’s bench, and, since there was no getting around his bum ankle, he refused to waste more time than that. 

The thought had barely crossed his mind when his path was suddenly blocked by Mr. Hunter.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you go alone, colonel,” he huffed.

His eyes narrowed. “You can,” he said through gritted teeth, “and you will. Now, if you will excuse me.”

He took another step forward, but Graham did not move. Again, he was surprised to see little anger in the man’s face.

“Why is my presence so needed here?” he asked curiously. 

Gold’s hand flexed on the handle of his cane. There were a great many excuses he could give, and, more importantly, a great deal of power he could exert to avoid having to give one. But he couldn’t rack up a single deception from the depths of his brain – his distraction, it seemed, was too great. 

He turned slightly, just enough so that he was no longer facing the other man head on. Unbidden, his eyes flickered to the upper floor windows, all but one of them darkened by the night sky, but he did not allow them to linger. His darkest secret had been well kept for sixteen years – he would not reveal himself now. 

His tongue darted nervously towards his lips once more. “Let’s just say I have my responsibilities and leave it at that.” 

He trudged forward again, close enough, now, to grip the handrail beside the bench. He’d barely had the chance to touch it, though, when Graham intercepted again. 

“I have my responsibilities as well,” he muttered, nudging himself between Gold and the carriage. “Not many, but all of them fall to the Misses Blanchard. I won’t stay here while Miss Isabelle is in trouble.” 

If it were possible for eyes to shoot fire, he was quite certain his own would be doing just that. The man had stood in his way quite enough, and only his desire to reach Miss Isabelle as quickly as possible prevented him from throttling him. It did not, however, prevent him from deepening his glare, nor stepping as close to him as humanly possible without touching. 

Graham did not move. If anything, he dug his heels further into the ground. 

Gold’s mouth moved into a snarl, barely concealing the curses and threats just resting on his tongue. But he could not find it in himself to do more than that. Irate though it made him, he could not fault this man for standing firm. He could not fault him for his loyalty. Especially not such loyalty directed at the same women who owned most of his own devotion.

He eyed the man for another moment, ensuring that there was no other way to make him break, then sighed and turned his hands to his pockets. It only took him a moment to find the spare parchment, quill, and ink he kept hidden in his vest, an odd quirk, to be sure, but one he’d found very useful, now included. Ignoring Graham’s curiosity, he undid the stopper of his vial of ink and dipped in the nib before pressing it to the paper. It was harder to ignore the way the feather jerked in his shaking hand. 

A drop of something wet hit him barely a moment after he’d scrawled the first sentence. Ink spread all over the page, decorating it with blurry lines, and, for a moment, he feared that he’d given himself away by tearing up. When another drop fell, though, and he felt nothing on his face, he realized his error in not noticing the rain. The relief for himself was only momentary, replaced in an instant by disquiet – it was no wonder Isabelle fell if it had started raining on her walk. And if she’d been walking about in the cold and wet, a twisted ankle was the least she – or he – should be worried about. 

Mouth twisted, he turned his quill back to the paper and started again. He didn’t care that his scrawl was messy, it was still legible, and Graham would be able to translate the gist. All he had to gather from it was that the boy upstairs was not to leave the manor – the rest, especially the sordid reason why the boy was locked away, did not concern him. 

With a final jot, he shoved his quill and ink back into his pocket and slapped the parchment in Graham’s hand. He made a motion as if to take it from him, but Gold kept his hand steady around it. 

“I expect your discretion, Mr. Humbert,” he murmured, soft enough that the other man had to crane down to hear. “Not a word of this, to anyone. Including the Misses Blanchard. Your… responsibility, in this regard, is solely to me. Are we understood?”

Graham stared at him, every bit as cautious and wary as Gold himself. His respect for him, already greater than he’d be willing to admit, increased another notch. And his gratitude, when he finally nodded and took the page from his grip, mounted just as high. 

He shook his head sharply in his direction, the only thanks he was willing to give, before slowly climbing into the driver’s seat and taking the reins. He didn’t bother to turn around to see how Graham reacted to his new charge – disgust and suspicion was nothing new to him, and he wouldn’t ruin the respect Mr. Humbert had gained from him by seeing it in his eyes. 

Sitting erect, cane clutched tight between his feet, he snapped his hands and let the carriage roll on. And only after the estate was behind him, the lights from the upper windows and the serving man’s grim face masked behind the trees, he let his façade drop. 

Hands trembling, he set the reins beside him and rested his head against his knees. 

“Not again,” he prayed. “God, please, not again…”

God did not answer him. He never did. The only noise that greeted him, aside from the pounding rain and the ground beneath that made him shake more than he already was, were the words that Graham had spoken on the steps. Those words that had haunted him years before, about the only other woman he’d claimed to love. 

Accident. She’s had an accident…


	8. Chapter 8

Wholly Unspoilt (8/?)  
Birthday Ficathon 2014  
Giftee: thedarkonesgoldentardis & forzaouat (my triplets)

Rating: PG-13 

Author’s Note: Haha! Told you that you wouldn’t have to wait forever for the next chapter! Granted, it’s a bit short, but still, yay :D Well, I think that should be enough from me. Go on, my lovelies, and I hope you enjoy c:

 

It felt to Gold as if hours had passed before he finally reached the path leading up to Storybrooke Cottage. Victor’s horses were exhausted, soaking wet from the rain and pushed to their breaking point by his reckless driving, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel guilt over it. Not when Miss Isabelle was so close. 

He took pity on the poor beasts once the carriage turned into the drive, slowing them to a halt and jumping from the seat to tie the leads’ reins haphazardly to a tree. Lights still flickered in the downstairs parlor of the cottage, and his attention was wrapped firmly on that sight. It had to mean that she was alright. It had to be some sort of sign.

Before he realized he’d even been walking, his feet, aching and crooked, were planted on the doorstep. He didn’t bother being polite when his hands were shaking too much for him to attempt, not that he likely would have anyway. Instead, he beat frantically at the door with an open palm. Relief and fear both tore at his throat when it almost immediately opened.

“Gra – Colonel Gold.” 

Miss Blanchard backed away from him as if he were a ghost, nearly tripping over the hem of her robe. Behind her, something thudded down the stairs, but she did not turn, her eyes set solely on him.

“Is it Graham?” Miss Emma’s voice shouted. “Thank God he’s back, I didn’t want him spending too long with the creepy… oh.” 

The young girl skidded to a halt, eyes narrowing as she took in his presence in their doorway. When he didn’t wave at her as he was wont to do, she crossed her arms and leaned against the bannister – lurking, ever protectively, at her elder sister’s back. 

Miss Blanchard spared her sister a careful glare, no doubt chastising her for her bad manners, then turned back to him. To her credit, she shook off her surprise rather quickly, replacing it with the blank demeanor he assumed was her default. 

“I… I do apologize, for the confusion. We were not expecting you tonight.” She craned over his shoulder to look behind him. “Is Graham with you? We sent him to deliver you a message, but –”

Gold waved her off. “Miss Isabelle, how is she?” 

He was glad he hadn’t been expecting his interruption to calm the woman’s suspicions, glad that he didn’t rightly give a damn in the first place, for, while the rest of her expression remained blank, her eyes drew together more nervously.

“She is fine,” she answered carefully. “No lasting damage as far as we can tell.”

“And her foot?”

Miss Emma stepped up this time. “She isn’t lame, if that’s what you mean. Her ankle’s just a little sore.”

Her eyes wandered tactlessly to his own bum foot and cane. Miss Blanchard tapped her, eyes wide as she berated her on her rudeness, but Gold barely noticed. For the first time all evening, he was able to breathe. Miss Isabelle was fine. She wouldn’t’ suffer as he had.

With a final sigh, he quickly recomposed himself. 

“Good. That’s good,” he muttered. “Might I see her now?”

Miss Blanchard cocked her brows. “I’m sorry,” she said, sounding anything but, “but I’m afraid she’s resting right now. It wouldn’t do to wake her.”

Behind her elder sister’s back, Miss Emma clicked her tongue, in annoyance or agreement he couldn’t tell. “Mr. Jones’s orders.”

Eyes drawn in confusion, he turned back to Miss Blanchard. 

“Mr. Jones?” he asked curiously.

She nodded. “He’s the man who saved Isabelle when she fell on the way to your home.” A look of both irritation and fond allowance flickered through her eyes. “I must say, she seemed quite taken with the man. It’s no wonder she was so willing to heed his advice.”

His heart thudded to a stop in his chest. The short-lived happiness he felt was burned away. “I… see,” he murmured. “And did you happen to catch this gentleman’s Christian name?”

Again, she nodded. “Mr. Killian Jones, I believe. Yes, that sounds right.”

The air he’d been so glad to breathe again choked in his throat. Ash burned in his stomach, even as his whole body froze. 

Killian Jones. His… Miss Isabelle, was taken with Killian Jones.

It had happened again.

There weren’t a good many things he didn’t remember in his old age, even those things which would best be forgotten. Every sordid detail of his past, every regret, every nightmare – all of it was retained in his memory. But names… names were one such matter that he couldn’t rip from his skull no matter how hard he tried. Names stuck with him better than anything else. Especially the name of the bastard who’d so effectively managed to wound his already ruined life.

“Colonel?”

Gold’s eyes snapped back to the women before him. Neither of them appeared anything less than apprehensive.

Miss Blanchard cocked her head. “Do you know Mr. Jones, colonel?”

He stiffened, back straight and fingers clenched about his cane. “I know of him.” 

Hers and Miss Emma’s eyes both narrowed. They were curious, he knew – they may not have their sister’s keen mind, but none of the Misses Blanchard were foolish.

For just this night, though, he dearly wished that they were.

It made him seem more distrustful, he had no delusions about that, but, before either of them could open their mouths, he turned on his heel, leaving them in stunned silence in their doorway. Holding up his hand in a mock wave, he marched off down the path.

“I’ll send your servant back when I return, Miss Blanchard,” he called. “And I shall be back on the morrow to check on Miss Isabelle myself. Perhaps she will be rested enough for visitors by then.”

The light from the still open door followed him out. He waited with bated breath to see if the sisters would do so as well, but, thankfully, neither of them did. 

He needed only wait a moment before the shimmering glow was entirely snuffed out, too. Darkness overcame the wet reflections on the stone below his feet and cane.

Once again, he was all alone.

Trembling, he took a deep breath. And then, with more force than he ought to have been capable of possessing, slammed his cane into the nearest tree. Bark splintered from the trunk, scattering all over the ground surrounding him and landing violently on his cravat. The horses behind him whinnied in fear from the loud crack that preceded it, and clomped their hooves unsteadily when he banged his head against the wood, too. He didn’t care. He didn’t even notice the pain. It was only a tree. Until it was Jones’s face, he wouldn’t again rest easy. 

He fought against the heat building behind his eyes as he finally climbed back into his seat. God had been kind enough to save one of His angels from a broken foot. To save her from an agony no decent person should undertake. For that alone, he should be content. 

But he wasn’t.

He had been stupid, so utterly stupid, to dream that God would be as kind to a demon like himself. And now, he faced the possibility of losing both those women he held dear to Killian Jones.


	9. Chapter 9

Wholly Unspoilt (9/?)  
Rating: PG

Author’s Note: Sooooooooo sorry this took me forever to post. If it helps, I’ve been buried under tests and stupid internet connection, so it hasn’t entirely been my fault. But, that being said, I’m sure you’d like to get to the reading and ignore my horrible apologies :S Just gonna say one last thing and I’ll be gone: happy belated birthday ANG, and happy birthday thedooblydoo!

 

“Isabelle. Come on, wake up.”

Isabelle wrinkled her nose. Rather than listen to her little sister, she rolled over and burrowed deeper into her pillow, waiting impatiently for sleep to reclaim her. 

Had it not been for the sharp snap behind her head and the sudden flood of bright light, it might have worked.

Blinded, Isabelle groped for her sheet. Before she could so much as touch it, though, both it and her pillow were ripped out from under her. She groaned and, left with no other option, turned and sat up.

“Emma, must you really?” she grumbled. 

Her little sister smirked. Thankfully, she also dropped the curtain and, after a moment, tossed the sheet back onto Isabelle’s lap. 

“I always wondered what that felt like,” she snorted. “You and Mary-Margaret wake me up before I want to all the time, I thought it might be fun for you. I was right.”

Isabelle glared at her. Or tried, at least – much as she disliked being woken up, she couldn’t help but chuckle a little at her sister’s amusement. Before she could laugh, or perhaps beg for a few more minutes of peace, though, a sharp pain shot through her ankle. 

With a low moan, she bent forward and took her foot in hand. She’d forgotten about the injury. She’d forgotten about the accident altogether, actually. It hadn’t even occurred to her till she sat up that she was bundled on the settee instead of her own bed.

Emma stepped closer, worry in her eyes. “Are you alright?”

She nodded, even as she attempted to massage the sore part of her foot. Light as the touch was, though, it was still enough to make her hiss in pain, and, while she continued to nod, it was clear that her little sister didn’t believe her. 

“You don’t have to lie, you know,” she muttered. “I’ll just tell Mary-Margaret you want to have a lie in.” 

“No, no,” she argued. “It’s just my foot, I’ll live. Besides, Mary-Margaret will think me rude if I sleep all day.”

“She’d think it more rude if you slept through having visitors. But we can just send them away – it’s not ignoring them if they aren’t here to begin with.”

“Visitors?” Isabelle rubbed her ankle a moment more, then stilled. Her eyes glowered, her mouth turning to a distasteful frown. It seemed she’d forgotten something else. Apparently, today was to be spent waiting on that… forward, man, once again. “Oh yes – Mr. Jones. I’d forgotten.” 

Emma rolled her eyes. “And the creepy colonel.”

For a moment, the words went over her head, too overshadowed by the disappointment of Mr. Jones. But the moment the words sunk in, she whipped her head towards Emma fast enough to make her neck crack. 

“Colonel Gold isn’t creepy,” she murmured. “But… he’s coming, too?”

Her little sister nodded. “He didn’t say when, though. Just mentioned after he came to check on you last night.”

“He… what?” 

Unbidden, a well of warmth flowed through her body – the colonel actually cared enough to see to her? Enough to ride through the rain in darkness, just to ensure she was alright? 

A small smile touched her face, but, she shook her head and the thoughts away. The warmth, however, was less easy to dispel, even after she reminded herself that he was likely more upset that she’d missed dinner. 

“He didn’t’ seem cross with me, did he?” she asked carefully. 

The shrug her sister gave her in return was less than reassuring. “He seemed upset. I wouldn’t say cross.” 

“I see.” Sighing, Isabelle swung her feet off the cushions. “Well, there’s no point in me laying down any longer. Might you help me up the stairs?” 

Emma cocked her head. “What do you need up there?”

“Clean clothes. I think my blue dress is still in the armoire.”

Clutching the edge of the settee, she hefted herself to her feet and ambled toward the staircase. Before she could take more than a few steps, though, Emma again intervened.

“Are you dressing up for Mr. Jones?” she asked sternly.

“I’m hardly dressing up. I just don’t want to be half-naked when we have guests coming.” Her nose wrinkled in disgust. “Mr. Jones especially.”

She tried once more to edge her way up the stairs, and, again, her sister stepped in the way. 

“I don’t trust him.”

“Who?”

Emma groaned. “Mr. Jones. Actually, I don’t trust him or Colonel Gold. Had Mary-Margaret not been here, I’d have slammed the door on both of them.”

Knowing she wasn’t likely to get anywhere when Emma was in such a state, not to mention that she was honestly curious, she settled back down onto the arm of the settee. 

“What on earth brought all of this on?”

“I just… don’t want them here.” She shuffled her feet, a sure sign that she was agitated. “They’re both such liars. Gold has this sneaky way of doing it where it almost sounds like the truth, and he does it all the time. Jones… I’m not as sure about. The former is worrisome. The latter scares me.”

Isabelle’s eyes widened. Emma had a habit for speaking frankly, true enough, but she didn’t think she’d ever seen her so forthright about it. That alone was enough to worry her. The fact that she was talking about someone lying, something she had to concede her little sister was exceptionally good at noticing, made it only worse. Mr. Jones was no problem – she hardly listened to anything the man said anyway. But to think that the colonel might lie to her…

She exhaled, letting the worries leave with her breath. Using the arm to keep herself upright, she again rose to her feet. Emma stared at her with narrowed eyes, almost as if she was concerned that Isabelle didn’t trust her judgment. She dispelled her little sister’s thoughts immediately, though, by wrapping her arms around her shoulders and hugging her close. 

“I believe you,” she mumbled into her hair. “But don’t worry about me. I’ll be careful with the both of them, I promise.”

Emma stared at her for a long moment, face blank as she gauged her. Then, slowly, she wound her arms about her in return and offered up one of her rare, real smiles. 

Knock, knock!

The both of them jumped, startled apart by the sudden sound. Barely a moment after, though, their worries were abated, as Mary-Margaret called out for Graham to get the door. 

Isabelle huffed – it would seem that she’d be greeting their guests in her nightclothes after all.

Emma turned to her, eyebrows drawn, serious as always. “Mary-Margaret will be wanting me back.”

“I know,” Isabelle smiled. Without waiting for her sister to respond, she leant forward and gave her another quick hug. “I’ll be careful, I promise.” 

Emma squeezed her quickly, then, just as abruptly, turned on her heel and left. Behind them, the door knocked once more. 

With a little stumbling, she hurried back to her sat, smoothing out her dress and unruly hair as best she could. At least then she might look somewhat presentable, and Mary-Margaret would have no need to worry about appearances. She’d hardly managed to arrange herself when Graham stepped into the doorway, looking both harried mildly panicked. 

“A visitor for you, Miss Isabelle,” he muttered.

She leant forward, heartbeat racing. “Who is it?” 

He didn’t answer, turning away and wandering nervously back towards the kitchen, to which Emma shrugged and whispered concernedly, “He’s been like that all morning”. But, then, he didn’t really have to answer.

A tall man in a black riding outfit swept into the room just behind Graham, a roguish smile already in place on his lips. His eyes, just as unsettling as before, found Isabelle immediately.

“Ah, my lady!” 

She grimaced – it was only Mr. Jones.

With a flourish and a grin, he sauntered into the room, hands clutched behind his back. Isabelle narrowed her eyes suspiciously, unable to help herself after Emma’s warning. He caught her gaze, and, smiling wider, brandished not something untoward, but, rather, a thick bouquet of bluebells. 

“For you, of course,” he smirked. “Bells for my Belle.”

Her eyebrows rose. “I… thank you,” she murmured. Gingerly, she leaned up and took them from his hand. The smelt sweet, fresh, and dirt still clung to their stems – just picked it seemed. She gazed up at him curiously. Despite Emma’s warning and the own caution thrumming in her gut, she couldn’t deny that the gesture was kind. “That was… very sweet of you, Mr. Jones.” 

His smile stretched on at her words, toothy and white and much too perfect. The warning thrum in her body changed tempo, more incessant and insistent. Kind or not, she still didn’t trust him. 

Flushed, she turned from his stare, stumbling once more to her feet in search of somewhere to put the flowers. In her haste, though, she’d stepped on her bad foot, and no sooner was she on her feet then she had fallen back to the sofa, clutching her foot in pain. 

Stiff fingers pulled hers away in an instant, twisting her legs until she lay parallel on the cushions. She didn’t have to look up to know that it wasn’t Graham helping her. 

“You should be staying off your foot, love,” Jones tsked her, rubbing small circles into the skin above her ankle. “You need better looking after.”

She huffed, trying in vain to tug her foot from his grasp. “I’m quite alright, Mr. Jones,” she argued. “I merely stepped on it wrong.”

“Nonsense. You obviously need someone to… lay you down, and take care of you.” 

The heat in his words chilled her. There was something… wrong, in it, something unpleasant that made her feel vaguely sick. Emma was right to be wary – there was something off about their rescuer.

He licked his lips, eyes glued just as firmly on her as ever. “Now, let’s see what the damage is,” he all but purred. 

Before she could even begin to argue, his hand wound around her calf, holding her place while he peeled off her shoe. 

Isabelle froze solid. No one, not even her sisters much less a man, had ever touched so much of her bare skin. As well they shouldn’t, either – it was improper and unacceptable behavior from any gentleman of class. And, more importantly, it was entirely unwanted. But she couldn’t pull herself away – his hands were too strong, and her stomach too knotted. The lascivious glint in his ice blue eyes held her in place.

Ill, she watched as he rubbed her sole, softly rotating her foot under his weak pretense of testing her ankle. His fingers grazed higher, though, lifting her leg ever higher. Her cheeks flushed, eyes burning, but he did not move away. He only lowered his face, and, still staring into her, pressed a kiss to her flesh.

Her whole body tightened up, disgusted and fearful all at once. Her eyes broke from his, hating the uncomfortable heat that radiated from them, and searched anxiously for Graham in hopes that he’d act as chaperone. But, for the first time she could remember, he wasn’t acting the protector – his gaze was directed elsewhere, his jaw clenched and his hands shaking. Her brow furrowed in concern, her worry for him thankfully overriding her own discomfort. 

“Graham?”

Graham jumped, the sound of his name apparently shocking him out of his stupor. Beside her, Jones released her foot with both hands and lips and slid an appropriate distance away. She thanked God when she felt his eyes leave her.

“Sorry,” Graham coughed, a low blush riding up his neck. “What was it you asked, Miss Isabelle?”

She opened her mouth, but it was Jones who answered first. 

“Not to worry, my good man,” he smiled. “I believe she merely wanted a vase for her flowers.”

Graham nodded stiffly, his thoughts still obviously elsewhere. “Of course. Miss Blanchard is in the back, she ought to know where one is.” 

“Excellent.” Jones dipped forward, bowing to her with one hand at his back. She sneered, unable to help herself, but no one seemed to notice. “I shall return, my lady.”

He winked at her, then, clapping Graham on the back, steered them toward the rear of the cottage. Their footsteps died off, punctuated by the snap of the door opening and closing, and, then, the house was silent. 

Isabelle sagged in relief. For what felt like the first time in hours, she allowed herself to breathe, sounding more a sob than a sigh. It was all he could do after Jones had had his hands on her. 

At the thought, she swatted angrily at her ankle, as if that might remove the sensation of his lips. 

It wasn’t fair that she found herself incapable of speech in his presence. From the way he behaved, it didn’t seem like that was a new occurrence for him as far as interaction with the opposite sex went, but she rather thought most women were stunned into silence by his “charm”. She, however, was not. He took liberties with her, something she would never have granted even had he asked. 

For not the first time in the short span since he’d entered, Isabelle thought on Emma’s words. She didn’t know him as a liar yet, but she surely knew she couldn’t trust him. And the fact that he struck her so dumb that she was unable to argue the matter certainly did not help.

“It seems we’re a matching set, Miss Isabelle.”

Isabelle jumped, nearly unsettling herself from the sofa in her surprise. She felt she’d almost hit the ground when a pair of strong hands, lither and softer than Jones’s had been, caught her arms and saved her the embarrassment. A glimpse of long, wispy hair was all she needed to realize who the hands – and the voice – had belonged to.

“Colonel Gold!” she smiled, the first honest one she’d worn all day. “I’d been waiting for you to visit.”

The colonel smiled back, though she noticed it was far more cautious and reserved than hers, almost as if it confused him that she greeted him so warmly. Isabelle took pity on him, and, still grinning herself, asked, “You said something about us being a matching set?”

He stared at her a moment longer, the meaning of her words apparently not yet sinking in. It seemed his focus was wholly on her face. Her stomach fluttered at the idea, though she had no idea why it would do so. Fortunately, she didn’t have to wait long for him to come to her rescue again with a distraction. 

A corner of his lips tilted up, the smirk reaching his tea-colored eyes this time, and nodded to the wall beside her. Isabelle cocked her head in confusion, but understood in an instant when she saw the walking staff propped on the end table. 

She laughed. “Well, you carry the look off much more adeptly than I, I’m sure.”

He flushed, the color warming his temples below the greying hair. The fact didn’t wasn’t lost on her, and she had to fight herself not to giggle. Her amusement only increased when he cleared his throat and took a step back, as if that might cover the fact that he’d been blushing like a schoolboy. All it really accomplished, though, was draw her attention to the way he was standing. Just like Jones before him, his hand was behind his back. 

His eyes flickered behind him, following her gaze, and that, if anything, only made him flush more. It did not, however, keep him from proffering the square package of brown paper and yellow ribbon that he’d been hiding from her. 

“A gift,” he said softly. “If you’ll have it. It’s the least I could do for causing your accident.”

Isabelle shook her head in disagreement, but took the package all the same, slipping her fingers through the bright ribbon at once. “You hardly caused my lack of grace, Colonel,” she argued. “It is I who should be apologizing to you for not –”

She fell short – in her hands, the paper fell apart, revealing a large, leather-bound book with gold writing embossed on the front. It read “Shakespeare’s Greatest Works”. 

Her eyes drank it up, fingers dancing across the bright words in stunned silence. Only vaguely did she realize that Gold was staring at her, the worried line between his brows creased as much as ever, but it was enough to force her back into speaking.

“This… this is one of mine.” 

Gold muttered something shot under his breath, likely a curse judging by his tone. “I’m sorry, Miss Isabelle,” he sighed. “I w… it was presumptuous of me to assume that you would not own a copy.” 

He leant forward to take it from her, but Isabelle clutched it closer, holding it fast to her chest even as his brow furrowed. 

“No, you misunderstand,” she started rather breathlessly. “I… I had a copy of this, once. But I sold it before I could ever finish it. It was all I could do for Mary-Margaret and Emma. This… this is the most wonderful gift, Colonel.” 

His cheeks twitched, just as red as ever, but the smile hadn’t left his face. If anything, it had only grown warmer.

“It’s no matter,” he murmured. “The thing was only taking up room in my library anyway. Hardly troublesome as all that.”

He shifted on his feet as if to turn from her, but Isabelle reached out for him before he could. His breath stuttered, as did hers, realizing too late that neither of them wore gloves. She never expected that he’d feel so warm. So soft.

She gulped. 

“No, I mean it,” she whispered, suddenly too hot and trembling to manage anything louder. “Thank you. No one… no one’s ever done something so thoughtful as this for me before.”

Jaw clenched, he nodded at her, almost too stiff and slow to register. Isabelle almost didn’t – she was too captivated with his eyes. Gold stared at her with the utmost fascination, as if she was the world’s greatest mystery and he couldn’t hope to fathom her. The expression did wonders for his eyes, making them twinkle and shine like the dark whiskey her father once kept in his study. An insane urge to brush back his hair so she could see more of them, so he could see more of her, filled her to the brim. Unduly fascinated or not, she felt, in this moment, that the colonel had seen her clearly than anyone else had in her entire existence. 

Biting her lip, she allowed her thumb to stroke the back of his hand, gathering courage to reach for his face. Just one sweep, and she’d be able to truly see him. 

“… very kind of you to do so, Mr. Jones,” Mary-Margaret’s voice interrupted. “She’ll hardly let any of us wait on her, so I’m relieved that she’ll at least allow you to.”

Gold broke free of her hold, retreating much quicker than any man with a limp ought to have been capable of. She blinked, and he was suddenly pressed against the opposite wall, seeming both terrified and immensely panicked. Only when he shifted away from her, beet red and hands shaking, did she realize she’d physically leant forward off the settee to meet him. 

Flushed, she turned away and busied herself with her appearance, setting her new book gently by her head and smoothing the front of her now rumpled gown. She’d only barely begun to analyze why she felt so out of sorts when Mary-Margaret shouldered open the door, a large vase of her bluebells cradled in her arms. 

“Isabelle,” she smiled warmly. “You’re up. I was worried you’d sleep in all day.”

“Well, I could hardly stay abed with so many visitors,” she mumbled wryly, gesturing to Colonel Gold with her hand if not her eyes.

“Visitors?” her sister asked curiously. “What – oh. Colonel Gold. I… we weren’t expecting you.”

Mary-Margaret’s tone turned grim, her hands set stiffly at her sides. Neither that nor her suddenly closed-off expression were lost on Isabelle, but she found herself still too flustered – though only God knew why – to comment. That didn’t, however, seem a problem for the colonel, even if his cheeks were still a bit more red than usual.

“I came to deliver a present for our patient, dearie,” he answered pleasantly, if not with a certain edge. “Just as I assured you I would last night.”

Noticeably agitated, her sister opened her mouth. But it was not her voice that responded. 

“Funny, I’d come for the exact same purpose.” 

All three of them – herself, her sister, and the colonel – turned to face the kitchen doorway. Isabelle bit her lip to disguise her groan, no less pleased to see Mr. Jones than she had been when first he entered. But, as it turned out, she needn’t have done a thing to hide – the sound that came from Colonel Gold at the sight of their new visitor more than covered anything she might have made. And even if that hadn’t, the look in his eyes, the outright hate as if he wanted nothing more than to leap forward and strangle the man, would have. 

Mary-Margaret blinked, eyes darting worriedly between both men as they stared each other down. 

“Mr. Jones, I believe you know the colonel,” she said softly, even as she wrung her hands behind her back.

The smirk Jones wore on his face could only be described as derisive. “Yes, quite intimately.”

Gold growled. Mary-Margaret jumped back, as did Isabelle, both of them taking in his raised hackles and clenched fists. She would never risk embarrassing the colonel in public, especially not over something like this, but the question of why he was suddenly so hostile all but burned a hole in her tongue, begging to be asked. Thankfully or not, though, Jones ambled to her side before she could so much as open her mouth. 

“I must say, Miss Isabelle,” he grinned lasciviously, reaching out to brush back her hair, “you look quite fetching stretched out so.”

Acid churned in her stomach at his words. Even with others present, it seemed he would not stop with his advances. And though she felt both her sister’s and the colonel’s eyes boring into them, neither moved forward to do anything about it. 

His eyes roamed over her body, lingering on her legs and reminding her of how he’d touched her there before. She felt disgusted by them, and shoved them deeper under the covers to hide. Her hair, however, could not be so easily removed, and his fingers continued to draw locks of it into his grasp. 

“A fan of Shakespeare, I see.”

Isabelle flinched, startled by the sound of his voice. She readied herself to ask what he was talking about, but, as if he sensed her question, Jones reached above her head and took the heavy tome Gold had gifted her with. It was silly of her and she knew it, but it took every ounce of her willpower not to reach forward and rescue the book from him as well. 

Lazily as he’d stroked her hair, Jones flipped through the pages, smirking as he stopped to read a few lines. “You and I could be something out of the bard’s great plays, Miss Isabelle,” he said, waggling his eyebrows at her. “A rogeuish gentleman and his fair maiden, constantly rescuing her from doom and peril.”

She snorted, her silence immediately – and mercifully – shattered by his foolishness. 

“I’ve told you already, Mr. Jones,” she scoffed,” my twisted ankle was hardly so troublesome as your ‘doom and peril’.”

Undeterred, Jones only winked at her. “Don’t ruin the fantasy for me, Miss Isabelle. Why, I aspire to be the Romeo to your Juliet! ‘If I profane with my unworthiest hand’,” he started, taking her hand into his before she could shake free, “‘this holy shrine, the gentle sin is this: my lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.”

He continued, skipping forward to the famous balcony scene as he clutched her hand to his chest. For the first time, though, his touch did not bother her. It couldn’t when she hardly felt it. For whatever reason, the words that left Jones lips made her eyes reach out to the colonel, shuffling awkwardly by the wall and, when she finally looked up, staring at her just as fervently as she stared back. That was all she could read from him, though – the mask he so often wore in other company had been replaced, shielding his expression from even her. Concern, confusion, and not the slightest bit of hurt welled in her heart at the sight. More than that, though, she felt her own, burgeoning desire – that she and Gold had been left alone, to finish their conversation or whatever else might have come from their time together with the book. 

She gulped, just as she had before when she touched his hand. Gold twitched, her eyes perhaps deceiving her into thinking it was towards her, but she was once more distracted before she could truly tell.

“Wouldn’t that befit us, Miss Isabelle?” Jones asked, his hand brushing chastely but nonetheless insistently against hers. 

Isabelle shook her head, turning to face him once more. Her eyes, however, betrayed her by shifting to Gold and refusing to move. “Not entirely, Mr. Jones. I am no princess, and you are no schoolboy. And besides,” her eyelids fluttered, her palms suddenly sweaty as she continued to look towards the colonel, “I’d much prefer to be the Desdemona to someone’s Othello.”

Jones wrinkled his nose in distaste, but she hardly cared. Her sole focus was on the way Gold stopped shifting, turning at once, ever so slowly, to look again into her eyes. 

“And old Moor and a young beauty?” Jones huffed. “Hardly the best match. Especially considering he knifed her in the end.” 

“I never said I forgave him the murder,” she argued. “But I do understand it. He committed his crime out of fear and desperation, not cold-blooded ferocity. He was a lonely man, who thought no one would ever love him. It is no wonder that he turned on Desdemona at the first sign of her betrayal. And, besides, I’d much prefer a crime of passion to a death of stupidity and inept timing.”

For a moment, the room was still. Even Jones, for once, had been struck silent. Then again, that might have been because she’d drowned out everything but the sight of Colonel Gold.

But her scrutiny, at last, seemed too much for him. With a cough, he turned his back to them, and, gripping his cane, marched toward the kitchen.

“I… I believe I will take my leave now,” he stammered. “I… I must thank your servant for alerting me last night. If you’ll excuse me.”

Mary-Margaret bustled out of the way, letting him pass her without argument. Her eyes, like Isabelle’s followed him out of the room, and stayed on him even when the backdoor informed them that he’d vanished. And they weren’t the only ones – at his near-silent chuckle, Isabelle faced Mr. Jones, her eyes narrowed as she took in the malicious grin on his lips. It lasted but a moment before he shifted once more to leer at her, but she could not forget it, no more than she could forget the wicked gleam still apparent in his eyes. 

“Well, it seems our patient is quite in order,” he muttered. “I will be taking my leave then.”

“Oh please stay, Mr. Jones,” Mary-Margaret pleaded, her attention rapt on him once again. “You saved our Isabelle, the least we can do is feed you. Sir Victor surely wouldn’t mind if we invited you to supper with us.” 

Jones smiled, eyes still shining despicably, and Isabelle wondered that she was the only one who saw it. Her and Colonel Gold.

“I appreciate the offer, Miss Blanchard, but I do think I’ve tired out our Isabelle quite enough for one day. No worries – I shall return tomorrow.”

Bowing, he pressed a kiss to the back of Isabelle’s hand, and, without further warning, swept through the cottage and out the front door. She huffed, and wiped the wet indention onto the linens, hoping that it, too, would fade from her memory in time. She only worried that it would erase the memory of Gold holding her, as well.

“Isabelle!” Mary-Margaret hissed, intruding on her thoughts. “Have you entirely forgotten your sense of decorum?”

For what felt like the fiftieth time that morning, Isabelle’s cheeks blushed red. The colonel’s face as he left the room was still dancing through her mind, and she neither could nor would make it stop. “Whatever are you talking about?” 

Her sister sighed. “I’m talking about Mr. Jones, Isabelle. I know you fancy him, but you shouldn’t show it so… ardently.” 

“I… Jones?” Isabelle halted halfway through her argument. “You… hold on, you think I fancy Mr. Jones?” 

Her elder sister rolled her eyes in a manner worthy of even Emma. “And you both accuse me of being an awful liar. I do not mind, Isabelle, really. I just… would prefer if you showed a little more restraint.”

Stunned, Isabelle gaped after Mary-Margaret as she set down the vase and marched again from the room. No retort came to her, nor did any response at all. She was left only with the bizarre realization that her sister didn’t know her half as well as Colonel Gold seemed to. 

Colonel Gold…

Isabelle sat back against the sheets, rescuing her book from the armrest Jones had laid it on. It was still open at the passage from Othello. The passage she’d all but read to Gold herself with her eyes. 

A flush – deeper, and heavier – than the ones she’d felt before engulfed her body. All thoughts of Graham’s strange behavior, Jones’s forwardness, and even her sister’s strange assumptions flew from her mind. Well, perhaps not the last. Not entirely. She could deny it all she wanted, but the fact of the matter would remain the same. Mary-Margaret was right – she was besotted with a man she hadn’t known for long at all. Just not with Mr. Jones. 

Just past the two week mark of their acquaintanceship or not, she was beginning to fall in love with Colonel Gold.


	10. Chapter 10

Wholly Unspoilt (10/?)  
Rating: PG  
Author’s Note: Welp, it’s finally back. Nine months, and it’s finally, finally back. The least I could do was post a few days early :) I’d tell you how sorry I am that it took me this long, but I’m sure you’d much rather just read. All I’ll say is that, if you want to refresh your memories, I recommend reading the first 9 chapters here on AO3. I’ve been editing my fics for grammar, but I haven’t gotten to my tumblr masterlist yet. Hope it was worth the wait, dearests! And the next chapter will be up on the 9th.

 

As the next week went by, Isabelle found herself waiting on tenterhooks. After her revelation about Colonel Gold, after she’d spoken so passionately to him about Othello, she’d expected her life to dramatically alter, for better or worse. 

But nothing happened. 

Her foot, although healing, remained sore enough to stay her from walking. Sir Victor and Lady Scarlet still invited them every evening to take supper at the manor, even offering to send a carriage so Isabelle needn’t strain her foot. Graham remained suspiciously awkward, Emma wary and rude, and Mary-Margaret oddly condescending. 

And Colonel Gold still came by every day, as did Mr. Jones, to check on her progress. 

The only difference there was that the two men never again called on her at the same time, the former choosing to visit by night and the latter at noontime. If she didn’t know better, Isabelle might’ve assumed they arranged it that way on purpose. As it was, though, she could never forget the vile hatred in each man’s eyes as he stared the other down. 

With a silent huff, she shook her head, as if that might effectively banish her thoughts, and dunked the linen cloth into the pond. The chill of the water was a much better distraction, a fact that made her smile as she rubbed out the errant stain on a rock. 

If she could not quite be glad about their visitors, she could at least feel relief at being allowed outside again. She hated being an invalid. She hated being locked up, to tell the truth of it. Like a plant, she needed fresh air, sunlight. Even as a child, when she was sick, she would lie that she was feeling better just for a chance to step outside. 

A splash of water hit her arm, shaking her from her reverie. Isabelle looked up, half-expecting to see that it was raining. She was not surprised, however, to find Emma trying – and failing – not to laugh at her. 

“Sorry, Lady Daydream,” she smirked. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Isabelle stuck out her tongue and splashed back, thoroughly wetting her little sister’s blouse. A few stray drops hit Graham, cleaning his knife further down the stream, and Mary-Margaret just across from them. Both she and Emma froze, waiting for her to chide them as she was wont to do lately, but, to their relief, she actually chuckled. The two younger girls shared a smile, and returned to their laundry. 

“What were you thinking about, anyway?” Emma asked after a moment. “You haven’t said anything in half an hour.” 

“Nothing,” she answered far too quickly. “I was just… admiring the weather.” 

Her sisters smirked at each other over her head. She tried to hide the blush on her cheeks at being caught, but rather thought she was as effective in doing so as her sisters were at hiding their grins. 

“It is rather lovely out,” Mary-Margaret continued coyly. “Perfect for a walk, or a picnic. Have you any outings planned with Mr. Jones?”

Isabelle scoffed, the smile entirely sliding from her face. “Why ought I? It’s not as if I owe the man anything.” She shook her head, determined to remove any thoughts of him from her brain. Today was a lovely day, just as her elder sister had noticed, and she would not let images of that cad Jones ruin it. “Besides, even if I wanted to, I believe I’ve had quite enough outings for the time being.” She stuck out her still-swollen ankle, careful not to bend it as she set it in the water. “No more late night escapades chasing after men for me.”

Emma chuckled, still smirking even as she returned to her cleaning. Emboldened by their youngest’s approval, Isabelle chanced a glimpse at Mary-Margaret. She wished almost immediately that she hadn’t. It was clear that her elder sister did not share their sentiment of mockery in the least. She stared strangely at Isabelle, her expression caught somewhere between confusion, disbelief, and irritation. It confounded her, and set her on edge at least as much as Jones’s very presence. Mary-Margaret never spoke ill of anyone, but Isabelle thought she at least disapproved of the man, much as she’d wrongly chastised her for throwing herself at him. But Mary-Margaret seemed to be doing all the throwing now, pushing her in her usual, not-so-subtle way towards Mr. Jones.

And away from Colonel Gold.

Maybe, she reasoned, it was because she still missed David. It had only been a month since last she’d seen him, and it would be cruel – not to mention foolish – to think her heartache anything less than fresh. It was likely that she had projected those feelings onto Mr. Jones, her only outlet when she refused to talk of her emotions with an outside party. Young love likely seemed the most sensible thing for Isabelle to be going through. And between the two of them, Jones was the younger man by a solid decade.

But David’s absence could only explain so much. Surely her sister’s broken heart hadn’t blinded her to the fact that Isabelle detested her “rescuer”. With his roving hands and scandalous glances, he had the ability to make her small and weak in a matter of moments, something she couldn’t remember ever having happened in the past. But, then, if Mary-Margaret wasn’t ignorant, that left a much direr alternative. The alternative that she entirely rejected her sister’s opinion, and saw fit to replace it with her own.

Just as Regina had always done.

She bit her lip, staring Mary-Margaret hard in the eye. But her sister, again either ignoring or denouncing her, returned to the bed linens in the water. Isabelle sighed, and looked away.  
“Graham,” she tried instead, hoping her voice sounded less shaky than she felt, “speaking of late night escapades, that reminds me.”

Down the way, he lifted his head in acknowledgement, continuing to sharpen his knife. “Yes, Miss Isabelle?”

“Well, I’ve been meaning to ask for awhile, but I keep forgetting. What were you doing so late at the colonel’s the evening I fell?”

Emma perked up beside her. “I meant to ask, too! Why were you so late that night?”

His knife slipped, clanging loudly against the rocks at his feet. He scrambled for it, nearly cutting himself in the process, but managed to catch the thing before it sunk to the bottom of the pond. When he managed to meet their gaze, his cheeks were bright red, his eyes wide as a treed squirrel’s. 

“It, um,” he stammered, still fiddling with his knife, “I was… there… he … the colonel has –”

“My lady!” 

Graham’s sputtered to a stop, muttering a quick, “Oh thank the Lord,” just loud enough for Isabelle to hear. Before she could ask what he was hiding, though, the reason for his interruption came into view. She should’ve recognized the dreadful noises of Mr. Jones. 

“Ah, there you are!” he called out, jogging to her side at the pond. He blatantly placed himself in her line of view, obscuring Graham and her sisters completely. From this vantage, she would be forced to look at him, if she intended to look at anything at all. “Lovely as ever, I must say. The outside air does wonders for your… complexion.”

His eyes wandered salaciously down her body, letting her know exactly what “complexion” he was admiring. Flushed, she tugged up her loose bodice, and reached for the nearest article of dry clothing to cover her ankles with. Jones’s gaze only followed it, though, his lips quirking up smugly. A moment later, Emma, utterly mortified, ripped the cloth from her elder sister’s hands with a loud caw. It seemed that Isabelle had grabbed Emma’s underskirt to hide under. 

“What is it that you want, Mr. Jones?” she asked, her tone even more clipped than she’d intended.

Jones didn’t seem to notice. Indeed, he seemed his usual sly, smirking self. 

“I’m glad you asked, Miss Isabelle! I came to ask if you might accompany me for a ride this afternoon.”

Isabelle balked at him. Did the man have extrasensory hearing? Did he knew that she had just told her sisters she did not wish to spend any more time with him in the least? 

Behind her back, she clenched her hands.

“I… I’m afraid I can’t, Mr. Jones,” she answered, trying her best not to clench her teeth. “I must help Mary-Margaret with the laundry.”

Emma vigorously nodded, and, quite helpfully, tossed her another rag to dunk into the pond. She was half-ready to mouth a “thank you” at her little sister when the cloth was tugged unceremoniously from her hands. Her mouth hung open in shock to see that it was Mary-Margaret who had done so.

“Do go on, Isabelle,” she urged. “Emma and I can hand the rest on our own. Besides, Mrs. Lucas and Lady Scarlet should be here soon to take to town. You would be quite bored waiting for us on the cottage.”

Isabelle bit her lip. Unfortunately, nothing her elder sister had said was untrue – they were, indeed, meant to go shopping with Scarlet and her grandmother. And knowing Mr. Jones, that would hardly be a reason for him to quit the Cottage, especially if he used Graham as an excuse for chaperone. Given the choice between spending time with him in the open or in an enclosed space, the former won every time. 

Sighing, she withdrew her foot from the water and nodded. “Fine. But only for an hour, two at most. There are other chores that need doing.” 

Mary-Margaret smiled at her gratefully, then turned back to her washing. Above them, Jones clapped his hands once with glee. 

“Splendid! If I may, then, Miss Isabelle?”

He proffered his fingers for her to take, merely waving them before her face instead of forcing them on her. Suspicious, but willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, Isabelle gave him her hand, and allowed him to pull her into a standing position. He was not so bold as to carry her again, nor did he lean too far into her personal space. He merely held her hand a respectable distance away, and allowed her to lean on him as they walked across the lawn. Isabelle allowed herself a smile as she turned to wave goodbye to her sisters. Perhaps this would not be so bad after all.

Beside her, Jones tapped her wrist. “Have you ever ridden a horse before, my lady?”

Isabelle glanced up at him, eyes narrowed. “Are we not taking a carriage?”

“I was unable to attain one this afternoon. So, my horse shall have to suffice. You remember him, I’m sure.”

In perfect time, they rounded the corner of the house to see a great, black horse padding the ground next to the fencepost. He shook out his mane and whinnied as if he knew he was being talked about. Isabelle forced herself not to shy away from him – she remembered the stallion instantly as the one from the night she’d hurt her ankle. 

“Oh no, this is perfectly fine,” she lied, attempting to sound bold instead of wary. It wasn’t like her to speak against her feelings, but she couldn’t see much of an alternative. If she told him the truth, he would only accompany her inside, and then she’d never hear the end of it from Mary-Margaret. “He’s very… handsome. What is his name?”

“Jolly Roger. Name of the first ship I sailed on.” He stepped forward to fiddle with Jolly’s bridle. “He doesn’t bite, if you want to touch him.”

She rather thought better of that – Jones also claimed that he himself was a gentleman. His horse that didn’t bite may very well take off her hand. 

Jones was staring at her, though, and, unwilling to look afraid before him, she set her shoulders and walked closer. Before she could think better of it, she reached out and petted him on the nose, stroking down to his large nostrils. The horse snorted, bathing her hand with his warm breath. Heartened, Isabelle patted him a little more, and, in response, he raised his head to brush her palm, nipping lightly at her skin before nuzzling her fingers. She grinned. The horse was already much more agreeable than his master.

“You are a very good boy,” she laughed at him.

Beside her, Jones coughed, drawing her attention back to him. 

“I’m afraid there’s one other thing I forgot to mention,” he said, sounding not the least bit apologetic. “I didn’t bring a woman’s saddle with me, so you will have to ride as I do. Unless, of course, you would like to sit in my lap again.”

He quirked his eyebrows in time with his mouth, an action that Isabelle had no doubt he practiced. If he expected that fact to convince her, though, he was sorely mistaken.

Ignoring him entirely, she gave Jolly a final pat, then trailed her hand over to his side, grabbing the bridle from Jones’s grip. She’d hadn’t ridden a horse on ages, not since she was a little girl, but she would rather twist her other ankle than suffer any more of Mr. Jones’s “help”. Fortunately, the horse seemed to sense her hesitance, though, and did not budge an inch when she finally managed to stick her foot into the stirrup. Much more agreeable than his master indeed. 

Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and swung her leg over Jolly’s back. She didn’t fall, thank the Lord, nor did slip on the saddle. It was quite a bit higher than she’d been expecting, but she took that in stride. The only problem she could see was that sitting spread-legged made her skirts ride up. Having the bottoms of her calves visible was only just scandalous, and she wore tights, but it was still quite a bit more skin than she felt comfortable showing off. Especially in front of Mr. Jones. 

“Might we stay to the fields?” she asked, nervously tugging at her hem. “I… I think the greenery will be a much better sight than town today.” 

Jones stared at her questioningly. For a moment, she worried that he might ask her why – and then mock her over the answer – but he only nodded. She couldn’t say she cared for leer in his eyes, but he nodded.

“As you wish, my lady,” he vowed. “Are we ready, then?”

Isabelle hadn’t even the chance to say she wanted more time to get adjusted. Apparently, Jones needed no answer, despite his asking, and, far more gracefully than she’d managed to, hopped on Jolly’s back behind her. 

“Hold on tight, love. Don’t worry, though – I won’t let you fall.”

His hands crept up to her waist, wrapping around her like a vice and pulling her hard into his front. Her own fingers froze on Jolly’s mane, stuck in place when all she really wanted to do was reach around and swat Jones away. Taking her shock as acquiescence, though, he spurred the horse’s sides, and they were off. 

Isabelle squeaked, lurching forward to hold on for dear life. She remembered riding horses with her father, but, apparently, she’d forgotten how fast they could go. Or, more likely, her father had never let their horse reach full speed when she rode with him. Jones, however, had no such compunctions, whipping Jolly’s bridle to make him go faster and faster still. She knew the man rode like a madman – that much was clear from his “rescue” of her on this very horse’s back – but it seemed that her pain that first time had dulled her to just how insane he was. 

The ground passed quickly under their feet, turning from the brown of the path to the greenery just past their yard. Isabelle found herself clutching Jones tighter, if only to keep herself steady – her distaste for the man could wait until this near-death experience was over with. 

“We’re coming up to a hill,” he shouted in her ear, forcing her to look behind instead of down as she had been. “Mind your seat!”

She flipped back around, fully intending to know what he meant, but it was clear the moment she looked ahead. He wasn’t going to avoid the hill – he was going to jump it. She opened her mouth, to berate him, to scream, she didn’t know. But it was too late – Jolly’s front hooves were already in the air. 

The ground receded, fading so many miles away, it seemed, as they launched over the pasture. Isabelle held fast, waiting for fear to course through every vein of her body… but it didn’t. She felt… weightless. Her worries, her doubts, her twinging ankle, Jones’s hands on her waist – all faded away. In that moment, all she felt was the wind and sun on her face, and the sensation of the world falling beneath her. 

She felt free.

Jolly’s hooves hit the grass hard, jostling her for the briefest moment before he was racing onward again. She grinned this time when Jones drove him faster, leading him to jump yet another small crag. She could do this every day, she thought. 

Breathing deep, she let her fingers slide from Jolly’s mane, lifting them hesitantly to her sides. She didn’t move, though – she was just as safe as she’d been before, even without her death grip on the horse’s head. Laughing, she spread her arms wide, closing her eyes to the sight of the green world flying past them. Everything, even Mr. Jones, seemed so far away like this, as if she were being carried on the winds instead of on horseback. 

For hours, or days, or maybe mere moments, she stayed suspended that way, her arms outstretched and her face tilted up to the sky. Time scarcely mattered up here. Aside from moving to the Cottage, it was her first real adventure, and by far the best she could ever have hoped for. The only thing that would make it better yet was if Colonel Gold was with her. Perhaps she would have to lay aside her disfavor with Mr. Jones after all – this was the loveliest time she had spent in a while. 

Smiling, she turned around in her seat, readying herself to swallow her pride and thank Jones for the ride. The moment she opened her eyes, though, the words died in her mouth. 

They were no longer riding through the fields. Indeed, there was little to no grass to be seen at all. Somehow, without her realizing it, Jones had ridden them into town. 

Jolly trotted over a particularly thick set of cobblestones, jostling her in the saddle. She dropped one of her arms to get a better grip, accidentally grazing Mr. Jones’s leg in the process. Blushing, she reached forward for the horse’s mane and pulled herself forward instead. 

“How vulgar!”

Isabelle whipped her head to the side, surprised by the new voice. She was even more startled to see that it belonged to not one, but three elderly women staring at her from a nearby street corner. Beside them, a man in a gentleman’s hat turned his nose up and walked away, whispering in the ear of the young woman beside him. Confused, she looked down at herself to see if anything was out of place… and was immediately reminded of the state of her legs. Thanks to the ride, even her tights had budged up – her lower calves were now visible for all to see. 

Face flushed, she lowered her arms, wrapping them tight around her body. 

“Mr. Jones,” she hissed, just loud enough for him to hear her, “why did you bring me here? I thought you promised to keep us out of town?” 

Behind her, Jones seemed to freeze solid. She twisted around to see him, amazed to see that he, of all people, looked offended. 

“You looked so lovely,” he murmured, sounding the innocent schoolboy. “I merely wanted to show you off. I have not stepped out of line, have I?”

Isabelle opened her mouth to retort, but was distracted by something in the corner of her eye. For a brief moment, she thought she saw a wisp of dark hair and the handle of a cane. But in the time it took her to blink, they’d rounded the corner, leaving only the sides of buildings to be seen.

With a sigh, she turned back around and hugged Jolly’s neck.

“No. Just… might we please return to the Cottage?” she pleaded. “I… I’m rather exhausted. And my ankle. It’s hurting again.” 

She could all but hear Jones’s disbelief. She was a bad liar at the best of times, and now, upset to the point of crying, she was sure she was absolutely dreadful. Whether she’d effectively deceived him or not, though, he still guided the horse down the nearest alley and turned them back towards home. 

She choked back a sob and held tighter. 

————————————————————————————————

The journey back to the Cottage seemed to take much longer than the path away from it had. Instead of that novel sense of liberty she’d felt when they jumped those hills, all Isabelle felt on the way back was emptiness and dread. The ground did not fade away this time – she felt every bump. 

It was with no small amount of joy that she finally saw her home rise up behind the trees. They’d hardly even come to a stop when she slid her leg under her lap and let herself slip from the saddle.

“Do you need any assistance, my lady?”

Isabelle fisted her hand. “No,” she spat. “I can make it to the door quite fine on my own.”

His fingers closed around her shoulder, drawing her eyes back to him once more. She wanted to hit him. She had never wanted to hit anyone before, apart from Regina. But in this moment, she wanted nothing more than to have her palm connect with that smug, sneering face. 

“Might I at least call on you?” he asked innocently. “Tomorrow morning, of course, after you’ve given your foot some rest?”

She did not answer him. Resolute in her hatred, she turned on her heel and marched the rest of the way down the path. She did not allow herself to breathe again until she heard the sound of hooves padding on the dirt. 

“Isabelle, back so soon?”

Her whole body sagged in relief. Mary-Margaret was home.

Disregarding the now very real pain in her foot, she jogged ahead down the stones, running headlong into her sister as she exited the front door. 

“Thank goodness,” she cried, wrapping her arms tight around her shoulders. “I’m so glad you’re here, Mary-Margaret, I need to talk to you.”

Mary-Margaret pushed her away, moving instantly to cross her arms before her chest. “About the good time you had, I’m sure.”

“No, it was dreadful, it… why are you staring at me that way?”

And, indeed, Mary-Margaret was not looking at her as she normally did. Censure and disapproval were common looks from her elder sister, to be sure, but this… this verged closer on disgust. 

She took a step closer. “Mary-Margaret, what is wrong?”

“What is wrong?” Her sister arched her eyebrows. “Isabelle, you rode right by us in town. Emma, Mrs. Lucas, Lady Scarlet, myself. We all saw you, with your skirt hiked up and your arms out. You should’ve known better, Isabelle, you aren’t a child anymore.”

Isabelle stepped back as if she’d been slapped. “I have not acted as one, either,” she said breathlessly. “I had no idea we were going into town. He promised that we would stay around the Cottage. That’s what I wanted to tell you about, I –”

“It doesn’t matter,” her sister interrupted calmly. “You were alone, with a man, with your legs on display. Have you any idea how… improper, you looked?”

“Doesn’t matter? Sister, I am well aware if there is any impropriety on my part,” she retorted. It didn’t matter that that was exactly what had upset her so much in the first place – that Mary-Margaret would blame her for this changed the situation entirely. She’d come to her looking for comfort, not accusation. “Considering that it is my body, I am the only one who should have an opinion on the matter.” 

Her sister smiled grimly. “You’ve already been exposed to impertinent remarks, Isabelle. And exposed in other ways, besides.”

Isabelle’s whole face turned red with shame. “It was only my calves, and they were covered by tights! If anyone had a problem with my appearance, it was due to their own dirty minds, not any sinning on my part!”

Mary-Margaret opened her mouth to respond. Before she could say anything, though, the sound of a horse’s hooves stayed her tongue. Isabelle cringed, fully expecting it to be Mr. Jones again, come to humiliate her even further. She was surprised, if not relieved, to see that it was only Sir Victor. 

“Ah, there you are!” he called happily, ignorant of the argument he’d just interrupted. “I was hoping to find you here.” 

Mary-Margaret curtsied, ever proper even now. Isabelle couldn’t even manage to turn around properly – her whole body felt numb. 

“Yes, I just returned from town with your wife,” her sister said pleasantly. “Is there something the matter?”

Sir Victor waved her off. “Nothing of the sort. No, I came to invite you to a picnic with us, actually. Graham is invited as well, of course. Noon, Thursday next.” He allowed himself a smug smile. “We’ve even convinced Colonel Gold to have it on his property.” 

Beside her, Mary-Margaret’s body stiffened. “How lovely,” she muttered. “Who all is expected to come?”

“Well, us, of course. You and your family, if you are willing. Oh, and two good friends of Granny’s, a Mr. and Mrs. Crank. They’ve come in especially from Brighton to visit.”

His eyes wandered over to Isabelle. She was sure she looked quite the sight, her skirts and tights wrinkled from her tugging them down so abruptly, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to care. She stared at him as blankly as if he’d said nothing to them at all.

“Mr. Jones is, of course, invited as well,” he added hastily. “Give you a reason to look forward to the event, right, Miss Isabelle?”

She swallowed the bile roiling in her stomach. She could all but feel Mary-Margaret’s eyes on her, their intense scrutiny burning holes in her skin. If it were possible, she would like to evaporate – disappear from this spot entirely. 

“That… that would be wonderful, Sir Victor,” she muttered. “I do apologize, but I think I will retire now. My… adventure, earlier, left me exhausted. I should really get to bed.”

Sir Victor’s and Mary-Margaret’s stares bored into her, but she ignored them. Head down, she raced inside the house and up the stairs, not even bothering to wave at Graham and Emma in the kitchen.

In her room, she slammed the door and sunk to the ground. Finally alone, tears fell from her eyes like waterfalls. How could this happen? Today had started out so beautifully, how did it dissolve into… this?

She rested her cheek against the frame. It would be so easy to dismiss this as an overreaction. To pretend that not that many people had seen her, or that her reputation had not been effectively stained. But she could not do it. More than ever, she felt like a burden on her family, a burden on herself. Something shameful, a disgrace to be hidden away and not talked about. The world she’d been looking forward to this morning had been turned on its head, and she was left reeling in the abyss. 

There were only two things she was sure of now. Two things, and they both cut through her like a knife. The first was that she did not trust Mr. Jones. For all that the colonel’s hatred of the man seemed bizarre when first she’d seen it, she entirely agreed with him now. The man was to be reviled and ignored at all costs – nothing good could come from him.

And the second…

Her eyes welled up all over again, spilling down her cheeks in torrents. A loud, gasping sob left her mouth, shaking her whole upper body.

The second, it seemed, was that her elder sister, her very best friend in the world, no longer trusted her. Seventeen years, and she was the only friend Isabelle had ever known. And now, with one single act of impropriety, it felt as if she had lost her. 

As she cried herself to sleep on the floor, curling into a ball to cradle her foot, she couldn’t help but feel that everything had changed. That the person she thought she knew best in the world, she no longer knew at all.


End file.
